IN  A  LITTLE  TOWN 


BOOKS  BY 
RUPERT   HUGHES 

IN    A    LITTLE    TOWN 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE   THIRTEENTH   COMMANDMENT 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo 

CLIPPED   WINGS.     Frontispiece.     Post  Svo 

WHAT  WILL  PEOPLE   SAY? 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo 

THE   LAST  ROSE   OF  SUMMER. 

Frontispiece.     16mo 

EMPTY   POCKETS.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


.— .Ti^j-tA/    (-*.—</ 


She  would  be  so  absorbed  in  the  petty  chronicles  of  Drury's 
life  that  she  would  stroll  into  people.      Once  she  marched 
plump  into  the  parson's  horrified  bosom. 


In  a  Little  Town 


BY 


RUPERT    HUGHES 


HARPER   fcf    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 


IN  A  LITTLE  TOWN 


Copyright,   1917.  by  Harper  &   Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  ot  America 

Published  March,  1917 


TO 

FREDERICK  ATHERTON  DUNEKA 
AS  AN  i-o-u  OF 

HEARTFELT  ESTEEM 


2229151 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


DON'T  You  CARE! i 

POP 42 

BABY  TALK 73 

THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 106 

THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME 141 

AND  THIS  Is  MARRIAGE 173 

THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 191 

THE  HAPPIEST  MAN  IN  IOWAY 222 

PRAYERS 224 

PAIN 232 

THE  BEAUTY  AND  THE  FOOL 262 

THE  GHOSTLY  COUNSELORS 267 

DAUGHTERS  OF  SHILOH 285 

"A"  AS  IN  "FATHER" 356 


FOREWORD 

THERE  are  two  immortal  imbecilities  that  I  have 
no  patience  for. 

The  other  one  is  the  treatment  of  little  towns  as  if 
they  were  essentially  different  from  big  towns. 
Cities  are  not  "Ninevehs"  and  "Babylons"  any 
more  than  little  towns  are  Arcadias  or  Utopias.  In 
fact  we  are  now  unearthing  plentiful  evidence  of 
what  might  have  been  safely  assumed,  that  Babylon 
never  was  a  "Babylon"  nor  Nineveh  a  "Nineveh" 
in  the  sense  employed  by  poets  and  praters  without 
number.  Those  old  cities  were  made  up  of  assorted 
souls  as  good  and  as  bad  and  as  mixed  as  now. 

They  do  small  towns  a  grievous  injustice  who  deny 
them  restlessness,  vice,  ostentation,  cruelty;  as  they 
do  cities  a  grievous  injustice  who  deny  them  sim- 
plicity, homeliness,  friendship,  and  contentment.  It 
is  one  of  those  undeniable  facts  (which  everybody 
denies)  that  a  city  is  only  a  lot  of  small  towns  put  to- 
gether. Its  population  is  largely  made  up  of  people 
who  came  from  small  towns  and  of  people  who  go 
back  to  small  towns  every  evening. 

A  village  is  simply  a  quiet  street  in  the  big  city 
of  the  world.  Quaint,  sweet  happenings  take  place 


FOREWORD 

in  the  avenues  most  thronged,  and  desperate  events 
come  about  in  sleepy  lanes.  People  are  people, 
chance  is  chance. 

My  novels  have  mainly  concerned  themselves 
with  New  York,  and  I  have  tried  therein  to  publish 
bits  of  its  life  as  they  appear  to  such  eyes  and  such 
mind  as  I  have.  Though  several  of  my  short  stories 
have  been  published  in  single  volumes,  this  is  the 
first  group  to  be  issued.  They  are  all  devoted  to 
small-town  people.  In  them  I  have  sought  the  same 
end  as  in  the  city  novels:  to  be  true  to  truth,  to 
observe  with  sympathy  and  explain  with  fidelity,  to 
find  the  epic  of  a  stranger's  existence  and  shape  it 
for  the  eyes  of  strangers — to  pass  the  throb  of  an- 
other heart  through  my  heart  to  your  heart. 

The  scene  of  these  stories  lies  pretty  close  to  the 
core  of  these  United  States,  in  the  Middle  West,  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mississippi  River.  I  was  born  near 
that  river  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  my  boyhood 
in  it. 

Though  it  would  DC  unfair,  false,  and  unkind  to 
fasten  these  stories  on  any  definite  originals,  they 
are  centered  in  the  region  about  the  small  city  of 
Keokuk,  Iowa,  from  which  one  can  also  see  into  Illi- 
nois, and  into  Missouri,  where  I  was  born.  Comic 
poets  have  found  something  comic  in  the  name  of 
Keokuk,  as  in  other  town  names  in  which  the  letter 
"K"  is  prominent.  Why  "K"  should  be  so  hu- 
morous, I  can't  imagine.  The  name  of  Keokuk, 
however,  belonged  to  a  splendid  Indian  chief  who 


was  friendly  to  the  early  settlers  and  saved  them 
from  massacre.  The  monument  over  his  bones  in 
the  park,  on  the  high  bluff  there,  now  commands  one 
of  the  noblest  views  in  the  world,  a  great  lake 
formed  in  the  Mississippi  River  by  a  dam  which  is 
as  beautiful  as  if  the  Greeks  had  built  it.  It  was,  in 
fact,  built  by  a  thousand  Greeks  who  camped  there 
for  years.  As  an  engineering  achievement  it  rivals 
the  Assouan  dam  and  as  a  manufacturer  of  electricity 
it  is  a  second  to  Niagara  Falls.  But  it  has  not  yet 
materially  disturbed  the  rural  quality  of  the  country. 

The  scenery  thereabout  is  very  beautiful,  but  I 
guarantee  you  against  landscape  in  these  stories. 
I  cannot,  however,  guarantee  that  the  stories  are 
even  based  on  fact.  Yet  I  hope  that  they  are  truth. 

The  characters  are  limited  to  a  small  neighbor- 
hood, but  if  they  are  not  also  faithful  to  humanity  in 
general,  then,  as  we  would  say  out  there,  "I  miss 
my  guess." 

RUPERT  HUGHES. 


IN  A   LITTLE  TOWN 


DON'T  YOU  CARE! 


WHEN  she  was  told  it  was  a  girl,  Mrs.  Covers 
sighed.  "Well,  I  never  did  have  any  luck, 
anyway;  so  I  d'  know's  I'm  supprised." 

Later  she  wept  feebly: 

"Girls  are  easier  to  raise,  I  suppose;  but  I  kind 
of  had  my  heart  set  on  namin'  him  Launcelot." 
After  another  interval  she  rallied  to  a  smile:  "I 
was  prepared  for  the  worst,  though;  so  I  picked 
out  Ellaphine  for  a  name  in  case  he  was  a  her. 
It's  an  awful  pirty  name,  Ellaphine  is.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  nurse,  who  would  have  agreed 
to  anything  then. 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Covers  resumed:  "She'll  be  an 
awful  pirty  girl,  I  hope.  Is  that  her  makin'  all  that 
noise?  Give  me  a  glimpse  of  her,  will  you?  I  got 
a  right,  I  guess,  to  see  my  own  baby.  Oh,  Goshen! 

i 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Is  that  how  she  looks?"  A  kind  of  swoon;  then 
more  meditation,  followed  by  a  courageous  philos- 
ophy: "Children  always  look  funny  at  first.  She'll 
outgrow  it,  I  expect.  Ellaphine  is  such  an  elegant 
name.  It  ought  to  be  a  kind  of  inducement  to  grow 
up  to.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

The  nurse,  who  was  juggling  the  baby  as  if 
it  were  red-hot,  mumbled  through  a  mustache  of 
safety-pins  that  she  thought  so.  Mrs.  Covers 
echoed,  "I  thought  so,  too."  After  that  she  went 
to  sleep. 

Ellaphine,  however,  did  not  grow  up  elegant,  to 
fit  the  name.  The  name  grew  inelegant  to  fit  her. 
During  her  earliest  years  the  witty  little  children 
called  her  Elephant  until  they  tired  of  the  in- 
genuity and  allowed  her  to  lapse  indolently  from 
Ellar  to  El. 

Mrs.  Covers  for  some  years  cherished  a  dream  that 
her  ugly  duckling  would  develop  into  a  swan  and 
fly  away  with  a  fabulously  wealthy  prince.  Later 
she  dwindled  to  a  prayer  that  she  might  capture  a 
man  who  was  "tol'able  well-to-do." 

The  majority  of  ugly  ducklings,  however,  grow 
up  into  uglier  ducks,  and  Mrs.  Covers  resigned  her- 
self to  the  melancholy  prospect  of  the  widowed 
mother  of  an  old  maid  perennial. 

To  the  confusion  of  prophecy,  among  all  the  batch 
of  girls  who  descended  on  Carthage  about  the  time 
of  Ellaphine's  birth — "out  of  the  nowhere  into  the 
here" — Ellaphine  was  the  first  to  be  married!  And 

2 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

she  cut  out  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  township — it 
was  not  such  a  small  township,  either. 

Those  homely  ones  seem  to  make  straight  for  a 
home  the  first  thing.  Ellaphine  carried  off  Eddie 
Pouch- — the  very  Eddie  of  whom  his  mother  used 
to  say,  "He's  little,  but  oh,  my!"  The  rest  of  the 
people  said,  "Oh,  my,  but  he's  little!" 

Eddie's  given  name  was  Egbert.  Edward  was  his 
taken  name.  He  took  it  after  his  mother  died  and 
he  went  to  live  at  his  uncle  Loren's.  Eddie  was 
sorry  to  change  his  name,  but  he  said  his  mother 
was  not  responsible  at  the  time  she  pasted  the  label 
Egbert  on  him,  and  his  shy  soul  could  not  endure  to 
be  called  Egg  by  his  best  friends — least  of  all  by  his 
best  girl. 

His  best  girl  was  the  township  champion  looker, 
Luella  Thickins.  From  the  time  his  heart  was  big 
enough  for  Cupid  to  stick  a  child's-size  arrow  in, 
Eddie  idolized  Luella.  So  did  the  other  boys;  and 
as  Eddie  was  the  smallest  of  the  lot,  he  was  lost  in 
the  crowd.  Even  when  Luella  noticed  him  it  was 
with  the  atrocious  contempt  of  little  girls  for  little 
boys  they  do  not  like. 

Eddie  could  not  give  her  sticks  of  candy  or  jaw- 
breakers, for  his  uncle  Loren  did  not  believe  in 
spending  money.  And  Eddie  had  no  mother  to  go 
to  when  the  boys  mistreated  him  and  the  girls 
ignored  him.  A  dismal  life  he  led  until  he  grew 
up  as  far  as  he  ever  grew  up. 

Eddie   reached  his   twenty-second  birthday   and 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

was  working  in  Uncle  Loren's  factory — one  of  the 
largest  feather-duster  factories  in  the  whole  State 
— when  he  observed  a  sudden  change  in  Luella's 
manner. 

She  had  scared  him  away  from  paying  court  to 
her,  save  from  a  distance.  Now  she  took  after  him, 
with  her  aggressive  beauty  for  a  club  and  her  en- 
gaging smiles  for  a  net.  She  asked  him  to  take 
her  to  the  Sunday-school  picnic,  and  asked  him  what 
he  liked  best  for  her  to  put  in  for  him.  She  informed 
him  that  she  was  going  to  cook  it  for  herself  and  every- 
body said  she  could  fry  chicken  something  grand. 
So  he  chose  fried  chicken. 

He  was  so  overjoyed  that  it  was  hard  for  him  to  be 
as  solemn  about  the  house  as  he  ought  to  have  been, 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  Uncle  Loren  had  been  taken 
suddenly  and  violently  ill.  Eddie  was  the  natural 
heir  to  the  old  man's  fortune. 

Uncle  Loren  was  considered  close  in  a  town  where 
extravagance  was  almost  impossible,  but  where 
rigid  economy  was  supposed  to  pile  up  tremendous 
wealth.  Hitherto  it  had  pained  Uncle  Loren  to 
devote  a  penny  to  anything  but  the  sweet  uses  of 
investment.  Now  it  suddenly  occurred  to  the  old 
miser  that  he  had  invested  nothing  in  the  securities 
of  New  Jerusalem,  Limited.  He  was  frightened 
immeasurably. 

In  his  youth  he  had  joined  the  Campbellite  church 
and  had  been  baptized  in  the  town  pond  when  there 
was  a  crust  of  ice  over  it  which  the  pastor  had  to 

4 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

break  with  a  stick  before  he  immersed  Loren. 
Everybody  said  the  crust  of  ice  had  stuck  to  his 
heart  ever  since. 

In  the  panic  that  came  on  him  now  he  craftily 
decided  to  transfer  all  his  savings  to  the  other  shore. 
The  factory,  of  course,  he  must  leave  behind; 
but  he  drafted  a  hasty  will  presenting  all  his  money 
to  the  Campbellite  church  under  conditions  that  he 
counted  on  to  gain  him  a  high  commercial  rating  in 
heaven. 

Over  his  shoulder,  as  he  wrote,  a  shadow  waited, 
grinning;  and  the  old  man  had  hardly  folded  his 
last  testament  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pillow-slip 
when  the  grisly  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulders  and 
Uncle  Loren  was  no  longer  there. 

ii 

His  uncle's  demise  cut  Eddie  out  of  the  picnic  with 
Luella;  but  she  was  present  at  the  funeral  and  gave 
him  a  wonderful  smile.  Uncle  Loren's  final  will  was 
not  discovered  until  the  pillow-slip  was  sent  to  the 
wash;  and  at  the  funeral  Eddie  was  still  the  object 
of  more  or  less  disguised  congratulations  as  an 
important  heir. 

Luella  solaced  him  with  rare  tact  and  tenderness, 
and  spoke  much  of  his  loneliness  and  his  need  of  a 
helpmate.  Eddie  resolved  to  ask  her  to  marry  him 
as  soon  as  he  could  compose  the  speech. 

Some  days  later  Uncle  Loren's  farewell  will  turned 

5 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

up,  and  Eddie  fell  from  grace  with  a  thump.  The 
town  laughed  at  him,  as  people  always  laugh  when 
a  person — particularly  so  plump  a  person  as  Eddie 
was — falls  hard  on  the  slippery  sidewalk  of  this  icy 
world. 

In  his  dismay  he  hastened  to  Luella  for  sympathy, 
but  she  turned  up  missing.  She  jilted  him  with  a 
jolt  that  knocked  his  heart  out  of  his  mouth.  He 
stood,  as  it  were,  gaping  stupidly,  in  the  middle  of  the 
highway. 

Then  Ellaphine  Covers  came  along,  picked  his 
heart  out  of  the  road,  dusted  it,  and  offered  it  back. 
He  was  so  grateful  that  he  asked  her  to  keep  it  for 
him.  He  was  so  pitiable  an  object  that  he  felt  hon- 
ored even  by  the  support  of  Ellar  Covers. 

He  went  with  Ellar  quite  a  lot.  He  found  her  very 
comfortable  company.  She  seemed  flattered  by  his 
attention.  Other  people  acted  as  if  they  were  doing 
him  a  favor  by  letting  him  stand  around. 

He  had  lost  Uncle  Loren's  money,  but  he  still  had 
a  small  job  at  the  factory.  Partly  to  please  Ellar 
and  partly  to  show  certain  folks  that  he  was  not  yet 
dead,  he  took  her  out  for  a  drive  behind  a  livery- 
stable  horse.  It  was  a  beautiful  drive,  and  the  horse 
was  so  tame  that  it  showed  no  desire  to  run  away. 
It  was  perfectly  willing  to  stand  still  where  the 
view  was  good. 

He  let  Ellar  drive  awhile,  and  that  was  the  omy 
time  the  horse  misbehaved.  It  saw  a  stack  of  hay, 
nearly  went  mad,  and  tried  to  climb  a  rail  fence; 

6 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

but  Ellar  yelled  at  it  and  slapped  the  lines  at  it  and 
got  it  past  the  danger  zone,  and  it  relapsed  into  its 
usual  mood  of  despair. 

Eddie  told  Ellar  the  horse  was  "attackted  with 
haydrophobia."  And  she  nearly  laughed  herself  to 
death  and  said: 

"You  do  say  the  funniest  things!" 

She  was  a  girl  who  could  appreciate  a  fellow's 
jokes,  and  he  saw  that  they  could  have  awful  good 
times  together.  He  told  her  so  without  difficulty 
and  she  agreed  that  they  could,  and  they  were  as 
good  as  engaged  before  they  got  back  as  far  as  the 
fair-grounds.  As  they  came  into  the  familiar  streets 
Eddie  observed  a  remarkable  change  in  the  manner 
of  the  people  they  passed.  People  made  an  effort 
to  attract  his  eye.  They  wafted  him  salutes  from 
a  distance.  He  encountered  such  a  lifting  of  hats, 
elaborateness  of  smiles  and  flourish  of  hands,  that 
he  said  to  Ellaphine: 

"Say,  Pheeny,  I  wonder  what  the  joke  is!" 

"Me,  I  guess,"  sighed  Ellaphine.  "They're  mak- 
in'  fun  of  you  for  takin'  me  out  buggy-ridin'." 

"Ah,  go  on!"  said  Eddie.  "They've  found  out 
something  about  me  and  they're  pokin'  fun." 

He  was  overcome  with  shame  and  drove  to  Ella- 
phine's  house  by  a  side  street  and  escorted  the  horse 
to  the  livery-stable  by  a  back  alley.  On  his  way 
home  he  tried  in  vain  to  dodge  Luella  Thickins,  but 
she  headed  him  off  with  one  of  her  Sunday-best 
smiles.  She  b«wlcd  him  over  by  an  effusive  manner. 

7 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Why,  Eddie,  you  haven't  been  round  to  see  me 
for  the  longest  time!  Can't  you  come  on  over 
'safternoon?  I'd  just  love  to  see  you!" 

He  wondered  whether  she  had  forgotten  how  she 
had  ground  his  meek  heart  under  her  heel  the  last 
time  he  called. 

She  was  so  nice  to  him  that  she  frightened  him. 
He  mumbled  that  he  would  certainly  call  that  after- 
noon, and  got  away,  wondering  what  the  trick  was. 
Her  smile  seemed  less  pretty  than  it  used  to  be. 


in 

A  block  farther  on  Eddie  met  a  man  who  explained 
the  news,  which  had  run  across  the  town  like  oil  on 
water.  Tim  Holdredge,  an  idle  lawyer  who  had 
nothing  else  to  do,  looked  into  the  matter  of  Uncle 
Loren's  will  and  found  that  the  old  man,  in  his  in- 
nocence of  charity  and  his  passion  for  economy, 
had  left  his  money  to  the  church  on  conditions 
that  were  not  according  to  the  law.  The  money 
reverted  to  the  estate.  Eddie  was  the  estate. 

When  Tim  Holdredge  slapped  Eddie  on  the 
shoulder  and  explained  the  result  of  what  he  called 
"the  little  joker"  in  Uncle  Loren's  will,  Eddie  did 
not  rejoice,  as  Tim  had  a  right  to  expect. 

Eddie  was  poisoned  by  a  horrible  suspicion.  The 
logic  of  events  ran  through  his  head  like  a  hateful 
tune  which  he  could  not  shake  off: 

"When  Luella  thought  I  was  coming  into  a  pile  of 

8 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

money  she  was  nice  to  me.  When  she  heard  I 
wasn't  she  was  mean  to  me.  Now  that  my  money's 
coming  to  me,  after  all,  she's  nice  again.  There- 
fore— "  But  he  was  ashamed  to  give  that  ungallant 
ergo  brain  room. 

Still  more  bewildering  was  the  behavior  of  Ella- 
phine.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  his  good  fortune 
he  hurried  to  tell  her  about  it.  Her  mother  an- 
swered the  door -bell  and  congratulated  him  on 
his  good  luck.  When  he  asked  for  Ellar,  her 
mother  said,  "She  was  feelin'  right  poorly,  so  she's 
layin'  down."  He  was  so  alarmed  that  he  forgot 
about  Luella,  who  waited  the  whole  afternoon  all 
dressed  up. 

After  supper  that  night  he  patrolled  before 
Ellaphine's  home  and  tried  to  pluck  up  courage 
enough  to  twist  that  old  door -bell  again.  Sud- 
denly she  ran  into  him.  She  was  sneaking  through 
the  front  gate.  He  tried  to  talk  to  her,  but  she 
said: 

"I'm  in  a  tur'ble  hurry.  I  got  to  go  to  the  drug- 
store and  get  some  chloroform  liniment.  Mamma's 
lumbago's  awful  bad." 

He  walked  along  with  her,  though  she  tried  to 
escape  him.  The  first  drowsy  lamp-post  showed  him 
that  Ellaphine  had  been  crying.  It  was  the  least 
becoming  thing  she  could  have  done.  Eddie  asked 
whether  her  mother  was  so  sick  as  all  that.  She 
said  "No" — then  changed  to  "Yes" — and  then 
stopped  short  and  began  to  blubber  uncouthly, 

9 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

dabbing  her  eyes  alternately  with  the  backs  of  her 
wrists. 

Eddie  stared  awhile,  then  yielded  to  an  imperious 
urge  to  clasp  her  to  his  heart  and  comfort  her.  She 
twisted  out  of  his  arms,  and  snapped,  "Don't  you 
touch  me,  Eddie  Pouch!" 

Eddie  mumbled,  inanely,  "You  didn't  mind  it  this 
mornin',  buggy-ridin'." 

Her  answer  completely  flabbergasted  him: 

"No;  because  you  didn't  have  all  that  money 
then." 

"Gee  whiz,  Pheeny!"  he  gasped.  "What  you 
got  against  Uncle  Loren's  money?  It  ain't  a 
disease,  is  it?  It's  not  ketchin',  is  it?" 

"No,"  she  sobbed;  "but  we —  Well,  when  you 
were  so  poor  and  all,  I  thought  you  might — you  might 
really  like  me  because  I  could  be  of  some — of  some 
use  to  you;  but  now  you — you  needn't  think  I'm 
goin*  to  hold  you  to  any — anything  against  your 
will." 

Eddie  realized  that  across  the  street  somebody 
had  stopped  to  listen.  Eddie  wanted  to  throw  a 
rock  at  whoever  it  was,  but  Ellaphine  absorbed  him 
as  she  wailed: 

"It  'd,be  just  like  you  to  be  just's  nice  to  me  as 
ever;  but  I'm  not  goin'  to  tie  you  down  to  any 
homely  old  crow  like  me  when  you  got  money  enough 
to  marry  anybody.  You  can  get  Luella  Thickins 
back  now.  You  could  marry  the  Queen  of  England 
if  you'd  a  mind  to." 

10 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

Eddie   could    find   nothing   better    to   say    than, 
'Well,  I'llbedog-on'd!" 
While  he  gaped  she  got  away. 


IV 

Luella  Thickins  cast  her  spells  over  Eddie  with 
all  her  might,  but  he  understood  them  now  and 
escaped  through  their  coarse  meshes.  She  was  so 
resolute,  however,  that  he  did  not  dare  trust  him- 
self alone  in  the  same  town  with  her  unless  he  had  a 
chaperon. 

He  sent  a  note  to  Ellaphine,  saying  he  was  in  dire 
trouble  and  needed  her  help.  This  brought  him  the 
entree  to  her  parlor.  He  told  her  the  exact  situation 
and  begged  her  to  rescue  him  from  Luella. 

Ellaphine's  craggy  features  grew  as  radiant  as  a 
mountain  peak  in  the  sunrise.  The  light  made 
beautiful  what  it  illumined.  She  consented  at  last 
to  believe  in  Eddie's  devotion,  or  at  least  in  his  need 
of  her;  and  the  homely  thing  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  being  pleaded  for  and  of  yielding  to  the  prayers 
of  an  ardent  lover. 

She  assumed  that  the  marriage  could  not  take 
place  for  several  years,  if  ever.  She  wanted  to  give 
Eddie  time  to  be  sure  of  his  heart;  but  Eddie  was 
stubborn  and  said: 

"Seein'  as  we're  agreed  on  gettin'  married,  let's 
have  the  wedding  right  away  and  get  it  over  with." 

When  Ellaphine's  mother  learned  that  Ellaphine 

ii 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

had  a  chance  to  marry  an  heir  and  was  asking  for 
time,  Mrs.  Covers  delivered  an  oration  that  would 
have  sent  Ellaphine  to  the  altar  with  almost  any- 
body, let  alone  her  idolized  Eddie. 

The  wedding  was  a  quiet  affair.  Everybody  in 
Carthage  was  invited.  Few  came.  People  feared 
that  if  they  went  they  would  have  to  send  wedding- 
presents,  and  Eddie  and  Ellar  were  too  unimportant 
to  the  social  life  of  Carthage  to  make  their  approval 
valuable. 

Eddie  wore  new  shoes,  which  creaked  and  pinched. 
He  looked  twice  as  uncomfortable  and  twice  as  sad 
as  he  had  looked  at  his  uncle  Loren's  obsequies  i 
and  he  suffered  that  supreme  disenchantment  of  a 
too-large  collar  with  a  necktie  rampant. 

In  spite  of  the  ancient  and  impregnable  theory 
that  all  brides  are  beautiful,  was  there  ever  a  woman 
who  looked  her  best  in  the  uniform  of  ^approaching 
servitude?  In  any  case,  Ellaphine's  best  was  not 
good,  and  she  was  at  her  worst  in  her  ill-fitting  white 
gown,  with  the  veil  askew.  Her  graceless  carriage 
was  not  improved  by  the  difficulty  of  keeping  step 
with  her  escort  and  the  added  task  of  keeping  step 
with  the  music. 

The  organist,  Mr.  Norman  Maugans,  always  grew 
temperamental  when  he  played  Mendelssohn's  *' Wed- 
ding March,"  and  always  relieved  its  monotonous 
cadence  with  passionate  accelerations  and  abrupt 
retardations.  That  made  walking  difficult. 

When  the  minister  had  finished  with  the  couple 

12 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

and  they  moved  down  the  aisle  to  what  the  paper 
called  the  "Bridle  March,  by  Lohengrin,"  Mr. 
Maugans  always  craned  his  neck  to  see  and  usually 
put  his  foot  on  the  wrong  pedal,  with  the  startling 
effect  of  firing  a  cannon  at  the  departing  guests. 

He  did  not  crane  his  neck,  however,  to  see  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pouch  depart.  They  were  too  commonplace 
entirely.  He  played  the  march  with  such  doleful 
indifference  that  Eddie  found  the  aisle  as  long  as  the 
distance  from  Marathon  to  Athens.  Also  he  was 
trying  to  walk  so  that  his  pinching  shoes  would  not 
squeak. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  pew  Eddie  and  Ellaphine 
encountered  Luella  Thickins  leaning  out  into  the 
aisle  and  triumphantly  beautiful  in  her  finest  rai- 
ment. Her  charms  were  militant  and  vindictive, 
and  her  smile  plainly  said:  "Uh-huh!  Don't  you 
wish  you'd  taken  me  instead  of  that  thing  you've 
hitched  up  with  for  life?" 

Eddie  gave  her  one  glance  and  found  her  hideous. 
Ellaphine  lowered  her  eyelids  in  defeat  and  slunk 
from  the  church,  thinking: 

"Now  he's  already  sorry  that  he  married  me. 
What  can  he  see  in  me  to  love?  Nothing!  Noth- 
ing!" 

When  they  clambered  into  the  carriage  Eddie  said, 
"Well,  Mrs.  Pouch,  give  your  old  husband  a  kiss!" 

Ellaphine  shrank  away  from  him,  however,  crying 
again.  He  was  hurt  and  puzzled  until  he  remem- 
bered that  it  is  the  business  of  brides  to  cry.  He 

13 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

held  her  hand  and  tried  to  console  her  for  being  his 
victim,  and  imagined  almost  every  reason  for  her 
tears  but  the  true  one. 

The  guests  at  the  church  straggled  to  Mrs. 
Govers's  home,  drawn  by  the  call  of  refreshments. 
Luella  was  the  gayest  of  them  all.  People  wondered 
why  Eddie  had  not  married  her  instead  of  Ellaphine. 
Luella  heard  some  one  say,  "What  on  earth  can  he 
see  in  her?" 

Luella  answered,  "What  on  earth  can  she  see  in 
him?"  It  was  hardly  playing  fair,  but  Luella  was  a 
poor  loser.  She  even  added,  to  clinch  it,  "What  on 
earth  can  they  see  in  each  other?" 

That  became  the  town  comment  on  the  couple 
when  there  was  any  comment  at  all.  Mainly  they 
were  ignored  completely. 

Eddie  and  Ellar  were  not  even  honored  with  the 
usual  outburst  of  the  ignoblest  of  all  sports — bride- 
baiting.  Nobody  tied  a  white  ribbon  to  the  wheel 
of  the  hack  that  took  them  to  the  depot.  Old  shoes 
had  not  been  provided  and  rice  had  been  forgotten. 
They  were  not  pelted  or  subjected  to  immemorial 
jokes.  They  were  not  chased  to  the  train,  and  their 
elaborate  schemes  for  deceiving  the  neighbors  as  to 
the  place  of  their  honeymoon  were  wasted.  Nobody 
cared  where  they  went  or  how  long  they  stayed. 

They  returned  sheepishly,  expecting  to  run  a 
gantlet  of  humor;  but  people  seemed  unaware  that 
they  had  been  away.  They  settled  down  into  the 
quiet  pool  of  Carthage  without  a  splash,  like  a  pair 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

of  mud -turtles  slipping  off  a  log  into  the  water. 
Even  the  interest  in  Eddie's  inheritance  did  not 
last  long,  for  Uncle  Loren's  fortune  did  not  last  long 
— not  that  they  were  spendthrift,  for  they  spent 
next  to  nothing;  but  money  must  be  fed  or  it  starves 
to  death.  Money  must  grow  or  wither. 


Eddie  found  that  his  uncle's  reputation  for  hard 
dealing  had  been  a  condition  of  his  success.  He  soon 
learned  that  the  feather-duster  factory  could  be  run 
at  a  profit  only  by  the  most  microscopic  care.  Wages 
must  be  kept  down;  hours  kept  up;  the  workers 
driven  every  minute,  fined  if  they  were  late,  nagged 
if  they  dawdled.  Profit  could  be  wrung  from  the 
trade  only  by  ugly  battles  with  dealers  and  pur- 
chasers. Raw  material  had  to  be  fought  down, 
finished  product  fought  up;  bills  due  fought  off, 
accounts  fought  in;  the  smallest  percentage  of  a 
percentage  wrestled  for. 

Eddie  was  incapable  of  such  vigilant  hostility 
toward  everybody.  The  factory  almost  imme- 
diately ceased  to  pay  expenses.  Eddie  was  prompt 
to  meet  debts,  but  lenient  as  a  collector.  The  rest 
of  his  inheritance  fared  no  better.  Eddie  was  an 
ideal  mortgagee.  The  first  widow  wept  him  out  of 
his  interest  in  five  tears.  Having  obliged  her,  he 
could  hardly  deny  the  next  person,  who  had  money 
but  wanted  more,  "to  carry  out  a  big  deal." 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

Eddie  first  gained  a  reputation  for  being  a  kind- 
hearted  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  and  later  a 
notoriety  for  being  an  easy  mark.  Eddie  over- 
heard such  comment  eventually,  and  it  wounded  him 
as  deeply  as  it  bewildered  him.  Bitterer  than  the 
contempt  for  a  hard  man  is  the  contempt  for  a  soft 
man  who  is  betrayed  by  a  vice  of  mercy.  Eddie 
was  hopelessly  addicted  to  decency. 

Uncle  Loren  had  been  a  miser  and  so  close  that  his 
nickname  had  implied  the  ability  to  skin  a  flint. 
People  hated  him  and  raged  against  him;  but  it 
suddenly  became  evident  that  they  had  worked  hard 
to  meet  their  bills  payable  to  him.  They  had  sat  up 
nights  devising  schemes  to  gain  cash  for  him.  He 
was  a  cause  of  industry  and  thrift  and  self-denial. 
He  paid  poor  wages,  but  he  kept  the  factory  going. 
He  squeezed  a  penny  until  the  eagle  screamed,  but 
he  made  dusters  out  of  the  tail  feathers,  and  he 
was  planning  to  branch  out  into  whisk  brooms  and 
pillows  when,  in  the  words  of  the  pastor,  he  was 
"called  home."  The  pastor  liked  the  phrase,  as  it 
did  not  commit  him  to  any  definite  habitat. 

Eddie,  however,  though  he  worked  hard  and  used 
thrift,  and,  with  Ellaphine's  help,  practised  self- 
denial,  found  that  he  was  not  so  big  a  man  as  the 
small  man  he  succeeded.  He  increased  the  wages 
and  cut  down  the  hours,  and  found  that  he  had 
diminished  the  output  of  everything  except  com- 
plaints. The  men  loafed  shamelessly,  cheated  him 
of  the  energy  and  the  material  that  belonged  to  him, 

16 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

and  whined  all  the  time.  His  debtors  grew  shiftless 
and  contemptuous. 

It  is  the  irony,  the  meanness,  of  the  trade  of  life 
that  virtue  may  prove  vicious  in  effect;  and  vicious- 
ness  may  produce  good  fruit.  Figs  do  grow  from 
thistles. 

For  a  time  the  Pouch  couple  attracted  a  great  deal 
of  attention  from  the  people  of  Carthage — the  sort  of 
attention  that  people  on  shore  devote  to  a  pair  of  cap- 
sized canoeists  for  whom  nobody  cares  to  risk  his  life. 

Luella  Thickins  had  forced  the  note  of  gaiety  at 
the  wedding,  but  she  soon  grew  genuinely  glad  that 
Eddie  had  got  away.  She  began  to  believe  that  she 
had  jilted  him. 

VI 

People  who  wondered  what  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pouch 
saw  in  each  other  could  not  realize  that  he  saw  in 
her  a  fellow-sufferer  who  upheld  him  with  her  love 
in  all  his  terrors.  She  was  everything  that  his  office 
was  not — peace  without  demand  for  money;  glowing 
admiration  and  raptures  of  passion. 

What  she  saw  in  him  was  what  a  mother  sees  in  a 
crippled  child  that  runs  home  to  her  when  the  play 
of  the  other  boys  is  too  swift  or  too  rough.  She  saw 
a  good  man,  who  could  not  fight  because  he  could 
not  slash  and  trample  and  loot.  She  saw  what  the 
Belgian  peasant  women  saw — a  little  cottage  holder 
staring  in  dismay  at  the  hostile  armies  crashing 
about  his  homestead. 

17 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

The  only  comfort  Eddie  found  in  the  situation  was 
the  growing  realization  that  it  was  hopeless.  The 
drowsy  opiate  of  surrender  began  to  spread  its  peace 
through  his  soul.  His  torment  was  the  remorse  of 
proving  a  traitor  to  his  dead  uncle's  glory.  The 
feather-dustery  that  had  been  a  monument  was 
about  to  topple  into  the  weeds.  Eddie  writhed  at 
that  and  at  his  feeling  of  disloyalty  to  the  em- 
ployees, who  would  be  turned  out  wageless  in  a  small 
town  that  was  staggering  under  the  burden  of  hard 
times. 

He  made  a  frantic  effort  to  keep  going  on  these 
accounts,  but  the  battle  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
could  not  imagine  ways  and  means — he  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  ropes  of  finance.  He  was  like  a  farmer 
with  a  scythe  against  sharpshooters.  Ellaphine  be- 
gan to  fear  that  the  struggle  would  break  him  down. 
One  night  she  persuaded  him  to  give  up. 

She  watched  him  anxiously  the  next  morning  as 
his  fat  little  body,  bulging  with  regrets,  went  meekly 
down  the  porch  steps  and  along  the  walk.  The 
squeal  of  the  gate  as  he  shoved  through  sounded 
like  a  groan  from  his  own  heart.  He  closed  the  gate 
after  him  with  the  gentle  care  he  gave  all  things. 
Then  he  leaned  across  it  to  wave  to  his  Pheeny. 
It  was  like  the  good-by  salute  of  a  man  going  to  jail. 

Ellaphine  moped  about  the  kitchen,  preparing  him 
the  best  dinner  she  could  to  cheer  him  when  he  came 
home  at  noon.  To  add  a  touch  of  grace  she  decided 
to  set  a  bowl  of  petunias  in  front  of  him.  He  loved 

18 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

the  homely  little  flowers  in  their  calico  finery,  like 
farmers'  daughters  at  a  picnic.  Their  cheap  and 
almost  palpable  fragrancy  delighted  him  when  it 
powdered  the  air.  She  hoped  that  they  would  bring 
a  smile  to  him  at  noon,  for  he  could  still  afford 
petunias. 

She  was  squatting  by  the  colony  aligned  along  the 
walk,  and  her  big  sunbonnet  hid  her  unbeautiful 
face  from  the  passers-by  and  theirs  from  her,  when 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Luella  Thickins  coming 
along,  giggling  with  the  banker's  son.  Luella  put 
on  a  little  extra  steam  for  the  benefit  of  Ellaphine, 
who  was  glad  of  her  sunbonnet  and  did  not  look  up. 

Later  there  came  a  quick  step,  thumping  the  board- 
walk in  a  rhythm  she  would  have  recognized  but  for 
its  allegrity.  The  gate  was  opened  with  a  sweep 
that  brought  a  shriek  from  its  old  rheumatic  hinge, 
and  was  permitted  to  swing  shut  with  an  unheeded 
smack.  Ellaphine  feared  it  was  somebody  coming 
with  the  haste  that  bad  news  inspires.  Something 
awful  had  happened  to  Eddie!  Her  knees  could 
not  lift  her  to  face  the  evil  tidings.  She  dared  not 
turn  her  head. 

Then  she  heard  Eddie's  own  voice:  "Pheeny! 
Pheeny,  honey!  Everything's  all  right!" 

Pheeny  spilled  the  petunias  and  sat  down  on  them. 
Eddie  lifted  her  up  and  pushed  his  glowing  face  deep 
into  her  sunbonnet,  and  kissed  her. 

Luella  Thickins  was  coming  back  and  her  giggling 
stopped.  She  and  the  banker's  son,  who  were  just 

3  19 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

sauntering  about,  exchanged  glances  of  disgust  at  the 
indecorous  proceeding.  Later  Luella  resumed  her 
giggle  and  enjoyed  hugely  her  comment: 

"Ellar  looks  fine  in  a  sunbonnet!  The  bigger  it  is, 
the  better  she  looks." 

VII 

Meantime  Eddie  was  supporting  his  Pheeny  into 
the  house.  His  path  was  strewn  with  petunias  and 
she  supposed  he  had  some  great  victory  to  announce. 
He  had;  but  he  was  the  victim. 

The  conqueror  was  the  superintendent  of  the 
factory,  Jabez  Pittinger,  who  had  survived  a  cycle 
of  Uncle  Loren's  martinetism  with  less  resentment 
than  a  year  of  Eddie's  lenience.  But  Eddie  is  telling 
Ellaphine  of  his  glorious  achievement: 

"You  see,  I  went  to  the  fact'ry  feeling  like  I  was 
goin'  to  my  grave." 

"I  know,"  she  said;   "but  what  happened?" 

"I  just  thought  I'd  rather  die  than  tack  up  the 
notice  that  we  were  going  to  shut  down  and  turn 
off  those  poor  folks  and  all." 

"I  know,"  said  Ellaphine;  "but  tell  me." 

"Well,  finally,"  Eddie  plodded  along,  "I  tried 
to  draw  up  the  'nouncement  with  the  markin'- 
brush;  but  I  just  couldn't  make  the  letters.  So  I 
called  in  Jabe  Pittinger  and  told  him  how  it  was; 
and  I  says  to  him:  'Jabe,  I  jest  naturally  can't  do 
it  m'self.  I  wisht  you'd  send  the  word  round  that 
the  factory's  goin'  to  stop  next  Sat'd'y.'  I  thought 

20 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

he'd  show  some  surprise;  but  he  didn't.  He  just 
shot  a  splash  of  tobacco-juice  through  that  missin' 
tooth  of  his  and  says,  'I  wouldn't  if  Fs  you.' 
And  I  says,  'Goodness  knows  I  hate  to;  but  there's 
no  way  out  of  it.'  And  he  wopsed  his  cud  round  and 
said,  'Mebbe  there  is/  'What  do  you  mean?'  I 
says.  And  he  says,  'Fact  is,  Eddie' — he  always 
called  me  Mr.  Pouch  or  Boss  before,  but  I  couldn't 
say  anything  to  him,  seeing — " 

"I  know!"  Ellaphine  almost  screamed.  "But 
what  'd  he  say?  What's  the  upshot?" 

Eddie  went  on  at  his  ox-like  gait.  "'Well/  he 
he  says,  'fact  is,  Eddie,'  he  says,  'I  been  expectin' 
this,  and  I  been  figgerin'  if  they  wasn't  a  way  some- 
where to  keep  a-runnin','  says  he;  'and  I  been 
talkin'  to  certain  parties  that  believes  as  I  do, 
that  the  fault  ain't  with  the  feather-duster  busi- 
ness, but  with  the  way  it's  run,'  he  says.  'People 
gotter  have  feather  dusters,'  he  says;  'but  they 
gotter  be  gave  to  'em  right.'  O'  course  I  knew 
he  was  gettin'  at  me,  but  I  was  in  no  p'sition  to 
talk  back." 

"Oh,  please,  Eddie!"  Ellaphine  moaned.  "Please 
tell  me!  I'm  goin'  crazy  to  know  the  upshot  of  it, 
and  I  smell  the  pie  burnin' — it's  rhubob,  too." 

"You  got  rhubob  pie  for  dinner  to-day?"  Eddie 
chortled.  "Oh,  crickety,  that's  fine!" 

He  followed  her  into  the  kitchen  and  helped 
her  carry  the  things  to  the  dining-room,  where 
they  waited  on  each  other  in  alternate  dashes  and 

21 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

clashes  of  "Lemme  get  it!"   and  "You  set  right 
still!" 

Eventually  he  reached  the  upshot,  which  was  that 
Mr.  Pittinger  thought  he  might  raise  money  to  run 
the  factory  if  Eddie  would  give  him  the  control  and 
drop  out.  Eddie  concluded,  with  a  burst  of  rapture : 
"I'm  so  tickled  I  wisht  I  could  telegraft  poor  Uncle 
Loren  that  everything's  all  right!" 


VIII 

It  was  an  outrageous  piece  of  petty  finance  on  high 
models,  and  it  euchred  Eddie  out  of  everything  he 
had  in  the  world  except  his  illusion  that  Jabez 
was  working  for  the  good  of  the  factory. 

Eddie  always  said  "The  Fact'ry"  in  the  tone  that 
city  people  use  when  they  say  "The  Cathedral." 

Ellaphine  saw  through  the  wiles  of  Jabez  and  the 
measly  capitalists  he  had  bound  together,  and  she 
was  ablaze  with  rage  at  them  and  with  pity  for  her 
tender-hearted  child-husband;  but  she  did  not  reveal 
these  emotions  to  Eddie. 

She  encouraged  him  to  feast  on  the  one  sweetmeat 
of  the  situation:  that  the  hands  would  not  be  turned 
off  and  the  factory  would  keep  open  doors.  In  fact, 
when  doubt  began  to  creep  into  his  own  idle  soul 
and  a  feeling  of  shame  depressed  him,  as  the  butt 
of  the  jokes  and  the  pity  that  the  neighbors  flung  at 
him,  Ellaphine  pretended  to  be  overjoyed  at  the 
triumoh  he  had  wrested  from  defeat. 

22 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

And  when  he  began  to  chafe  at  his  lack  of  occupa- 
tion, and  to  fret  about  their  future,  she  went  to  the 
factory  and  invaded  the  office  where  the  usurper, 
Jabez  Pittinger,  sat  enthroned  at  the  hallowed  desk, 
tossing  copious  libations  of  tobacco-juice  toward  a 
huge  new  cuspidor.  She  demanded  a  job  for  Eddie 
and  bullied  Jabez  into  making  him  a  bookkeeper, 
at  a  salary  of  forty-five  dollars  a  month. 

Thus,  at  last,  Eddie  Pouch  found  his  place  in  the 
world.  There  are  soldiers  who  make  ideal  first 
sergeants  and  are  ruined  and  ruinous  as  second 
lieutenants;  and  there  are  soldiers  who  are  worthless 
as  first  sergeants,  but  irresistible  as  major-generals. 
Eddie  was  a  born  first  sergeant,  a  routine  man,  a 
congenital  employee — doomed,  like  fire,  to  be  a 
splendid  servant  and  a  disastrous  master. 

Working  for  himself,  he  neglected  every  oppor- 
tunity. Working  for  another,  he  neglected  nothing. 
Meeting  emergencies,  tricking  creditors  and  debtors, 
and  massacring  competitors  were  not  in  his  line; 
but  when  it  came  to  adding  up  columns  of  figures  all 
day,  making  out  bills,  drawing  checks  for  somebody 
else  to  sign,  and  the  Santa  Claus  function  of  stuffing 
the  pay-roll  into  the  little  envelopes — Eddie  was 
there.  Shrewd  old  Jabez  recognized  this.  He  tried 
him  on  a  difficult  collection  once — sent  him  forth 
to  pry  an  ancient  debt  of  eighteen  dollars  and  thirty- 
four  cents  out  of  the  meanest  man  in  town,  vice 
Uncle  Loren.  Eddie  came  back  with  a  look  of 
contentment. 

23 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Did  you  git  it?"  said  Jabez. 

"Well,  you  see,  it  was  like  this:  the  poor  feller — " 

"Poor  heller!     Did  you  git  it?" 

"No;  he  was  so  hard  up  I  lent  him  four  dollars." 

"What!" 

"Out  of  my  own  pocket,  o'  course." 

Jabez  remarked  that  he'd  be  hornswoggled;  but 
he  valued  the  incident  and  added  it  to  the  anecdotes 
he  used  when  he  felt  that  he  had  need  to  justify 
himself  for  playing  Huerta  with  his  dreamy  Madero. 

IX 

After  that  the  most  Jabez  asked  of  Eddie  was  to 
write  "Please  remit"  or  "Past  due"  on  the  mossier 
bills.  Eddie  preferred  an  exquisite  poem  he  had 
copied  from  a  city  creditor:  "This  account  has  no 
doubt  escaped  your  notice.  As  we  have  several  large 
obligations  to  meet,  we  should  greatly  appreciate  a 
check  by  return  mail." 

Eddie  loved  that.  There  was  a  fine  chivalry  and 
democracy  about  it,  as  one  should  say:  "We're  all 
debtors  and  creditors  in  this  world,  and  we  big 
fellows  and  you  little  fellows  must  all  work  to- 
gether." 

Life  had  a  regularity  now  that  would  have  mad- 
dened a  man  more  ambitious  than  Eddie  or  a  woman 
more  restless  than  Ellaphine.  Their  world  was  like 
the  petunia-garden  —  the  flowers  were  not  orchids 
or  telegraph-pole-stemmed  roses;  but  the  flower 

24 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

faces  were  joyous,  their  frocks  neat,  and  their  per- 
fume savory. 

Eddie  knew  just  how  much  money  was  coming  in 
and  there  was  no  temptation  to  hope  for  an  increase. 
They  knew  just  how  much  time  they  had,  and  one 
day  was  like  another  except  that  along  about  the 
first  of  every  month  Eddie  went  to  the  office  a 
little  earlier  and  went  back  at  night  to  get  out  the 
bills  and  adjust  his  balances. 

On  these  evenings  Ellaphine  was  apt  to  go  along 
and  sit  with  him,  knitting  thick  woolen  socks  for  the 
winter,  making  him  shirts  or  nightgowns,  or  fashion- 
ing something  for  herself  or  the  house.  Her  loftiest 
reach  of  splendor  was  a  crazy  quilt;  and  her  rag 
carpets  were  highly  esteemed. 

On  Sundays  they  went  to  church  in  the  morning 
and  again  in  the  evening.  Prayer-meeting  night 
saw  them  always  on  their  way  to  the  place  where  the 
church  bell  called:  "Come!  Come!" 

Sometimes  irregular  people,  who  forgot  it  was 
prayer-meeting  night,  would  be  reminded  of  it  by 
seeing  Eddie  and  Ellar  go  by.  They  went  so  early 
that  there  was  time  for  the  careless  to  make  haste 
with  their  bonnets  and  arrive  in  time. 

It  was  a  saying  that  housewives  set  their  kitchen 
clocks  by  Eddie's  transits  to  and  from  the  factory. 
At  any  rate,  there  was  no  end  to  the  occasions  when 
shiftless  gossips,  dawdling  on  their  porches,  were  sur- 
prised to  see  Eddie  toddle  homeward,  and  scurried 
away,  cackling: 

25 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"My  gracious!    There  goes  Eddie  Pouch,  and  my 
biscuits  not  cut  out!" 


The  whole  year  was  tranquil  now  for  the  Pouches, 
and  the  halcyon  brooded  unalarmed  in  the  waveless 
cove  of  their  life.  There  were  no  debtors  to  be 
harassed,  no  creditors  to  harass  them.  They  paid 
cash  for  everything — at  least,  Ellaphine  did;  for 
Eddie  turned-  his  entire  forty-five  dollars  over  to  her. 
She  was  his  banker  and  his  steward. 

She  could  not  persuade  him  to  smoke,  or  to  buy 
new  clothes  before  the  old  ones  grew  too  shabby  for 
so  nice  a  man  as  a  bookkeeper  is  apt  to  be.  He  did 
not  drink  or  play  cards  or  billiards;  he  did  not 
belong  to  any  lodge  or  political  organization. 

The  outgo  of  money  was  as  regular  as  the  income 
— so  much  for  the  contribution-basket  on  Sundays; 
so  much  for  the  butcher;  so  much  for  the  grocer; 
so  much  for  the  coal-oil  lamps.  The  baker  got  none 
of  their  money  and  the  druggist  little. 

A  few  dollars  went  now  and  then  to  the  dry-goods 
store  for  dress  goods,  which  Pheeny  made  up;  and 
Eddie  left  an  occasional  sum  at  the  Pantatorium  for 
a  fresh  alpaca  coat,  or  for  a  new  pair  of  trousers 
when  the  seat  of  the  old  ones  grew  too  refulgent 
or  perilously  extenuate.  As  Eddie  stood  up  at  his 
tall  desk  most  of  the  time,  however,  it  was  rather 
his  shoes  than  his  pantaloons  that  felt  the  wear  and 
tear  of  attrition. 

26 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  the  tender  miserhood  of 
Ellaphine  and  the  asceticism  of  Eddie,  few  of  the 
forty-five  dollars  survived  the  thirty  days'  demands. 
Still,  there  was  always  something  for  the  savings- 
bank,  and  the  blessing  on  its  increment  was  that  it 
grew  by  exactions  from  themselves — not  from  their 
neighbors. 

The  inspiration  of  the  fund  was  the  children  that 
were  to  be.  The  fund  had  ample  time  for  accretion, 
since  the  children  were  as  late  as  Never  is. 

Such  things  are  not  discussed,  of  course,  in 
Carthage.  And  nobody  knew  how  fiercely  they 
yearned.  Nobody  knew  of  the  high  hopes  that 
flared  and  faded. 

After  the  first  few  months  of  marriage  Eddie  had 
begun  to  call  Pheeny  "Mother" — just  for  fun,  you 
know.  And  it  teased  her  so  that  he  kept  it  up,  for 
he  liked  a  joke  as  well  as  the  next  fellow.  Before 
people,  of  course,  she  was  "Pheeny,"  and,  on  very 
grand  occasions,  "the  wife."  "Mrs.  Pouch"  was 
beyond  him.  But  once,  at  a  sociable,  he  called 
across  the  room,  "Say,  mother!" 

He  was  going  to  ask  her  whether  she  wanted  him 
to  bring  her  a  piece  of  the  "chalklut"  cake  or  a 
hunk  of  the  "cokernut,"  but  he  got  no  farther. 
Nobody  noticed  it;  but  Eddie  and  Pheeny  were 
consumed  with  shame  and  slunk  home  scarlet. 
Nobody  noticed  that  they  had  gone. 

Time  went  on  and  on,  and  the  fund  grew  and  grew 
— a  little  coral  reef  of  pennies  and  nickels  and  dimes. 

27 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

The  amusements  of  the  couple  were  petty — an 
occasional  church  sociable  was  society;  a  revival 
period  was  drama.  They  never  went  to  the  shows 
that  came  to  the  Carthage  Opera  House.  They 
did  not  miss  much. 

Eddie  wasted  no  time  on  reading  any  fiction 
except  that  in  the  news  columns  of  the  evening  paper, 
which  a  boy  threw  on  the  porch  in  a  twisted  boom- 
erang every  afternoon,  and  which  Eddie  untwisted 
and  read  after  he  had  wiped  the  dishes  that  Pheeny 
washed. 

Ellaphine  spent  no  money  on  such  vanities  as 
novels  or  short  stories,  but  she  read  the  edifying 
romances  in  the  Sunday-school  paper  and  an  occa- 
sional book  from  the  Sunday-school  library,  mainly 
about  children  whose  angelic  qualities  gave  her  a 
picture  of  child  life  that  would  have  contrasted 
strongly  with  what  their  children  would  have  been 
if  they  had  had  any. 

Their  great  source  of  literature,  however,  was  the 
Bible.  Soon  after  their  factory  passed  out  of  their 
control  and  their  evenings  ceased  to  be  devoted  to 
riddles  in  finance,  they  had  resolved  to  read  the 
Bible  through,  "from  kiver  to  kiver."  And  Eddie 
and  Ellaphine  found  that  a  chapter  read  aloud  before 
going  to  bed  was  an  excellent  sedative. 

They  had  not  invaded  Genesis  quite  three  weeks 
before  the  evening  when  it  came  Eddie's  turn  to 
read  aloud  the  astonishing  romance  of  Abram,  who 
became  Abraham,  and  of  Sarai,  who  became  Sarah. 

28 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

It  was  very  exciting  when  the  child  was  promised  to 
Sarah,  though  she  was  "well  stricken  in  age." 
Eddie  smiled  as  he  read,  "Sarah  laughed  within 
herself."  But  Pheeny  blushed. 

Ellaphine  was  far  from  the  ninety  years  of  Sarah, 
but  she  felt  that  the  promise  of  a  son  was  no  laughing 
matter.  These  .poignant  hopes  and  awful  denials 
and  perilous  adventures  are  not  permitted  to  be 
written  about  or  printed  for  respectable  eyes.  If 
they  are  discussed  it  must  be  with  laughing  ribaldry. 

Even  in  their  solitude  Eddie  and  Pheeny  used 
modest  paraphrases  and  breathed  hard  and  looked 
askance,  and  made  sure  that  no  one  overheard. 
They  whispered  as  parents  do  when  their  children 
are  abed  up-stairs. 

The  neighbors  gave  them  hardly  thought  enough 
to  imagine  the  lofty  trepidation  of  these  thrilling 
hours.  The  neighbors  never  knew  of  the  merciless 
joke  Fate  played  on  them  when,  in  their  ignorance, 
they  believed  the  Lord  had  sent  them  a  sign.  They 
dwelt  in  a  fools'  paradise  for  a  long  time,  hoarding 
their  glorious  expectations. 

At  length  Pheeny  grew  brazen  enough  to  consult 
the  old  and  peevish  Doctor  Noxon;  and  he  laughed 
her  hopes  away  and  informed  her  that  she  need 
never  trouble  herself  to  hope  again. 

That  was  a  smashing  blow;  and  they  cowered 
together  under  the  shadow  of  this  great  denial, 
each  telling  the  other  that  it  did  not  matter,  since 
children  were  a  nuisance  and  a  danger  anyway. 

29 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

They  pretended  to  take  solace  in  two  current 
village  tragedies — the  death  of  the  mayor's  wife  in 
childbed  and  the  death  of  the  minister's  son  in 
disgrace;  but,  though  they  lied  to  each  other  lov- 
ingly, they  were  neither  convincing  nor  convinced. 

XI 

Year  followed  year  as  season  trudged  at  the  heel 
of  season.  The  only  difference  it  made  to  them  was 
that  now  Ellaphine  evicted  weeds  from  the  petunia- 
beds,  and  now  swept  snow  from  the  porch  and  beat 
the  broom  out  on  the  steps;  now  Eddie  carried  his 
umbrella  up  against  the  sun  or  rain  and  mopped  his 
bald  spot,  and  now  he  wore  his  galoshes  through 
the  slush  and  was  afraid  he  had  caught  a  cold. 

The  fund  in  the  bank  went  on  growing  like  a 
neglected  garden,  but  it  was  growing  for  nothing. 
Eddie  walked  more  slowly  to  and  from  the  office, 
and  Pheeny  took  a  longer  time  to  set  the  table. 
She  had  to  sit  down  a  good  deal  between  trips  and 
suffered  a  lot  of  pain.  She  said  nothing  about  it  to 
Eddie  of  evenings,  but  it  grew  harder  to  conceal 
her  weakness  from  him  when  he  helped  her  with  the 
Sunday  dinner. 

Finally  she  could  not  walk  to  church  one  day  and 
had  to  stay  at  home.  He  stayed  with  her,  and 
their  empty  pew  made  a  sensation.  Eddie  fought 
at  Pheeny  until  she  consented  to  see  the  doctor 
again — on  Monday. 

30 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

The  doctor  censured  her  for  being  foolish  enough 
to  try  to  die  on  her  feet,  and  demanded  of  Eddie 
why  they  did  not  keep  a  hired  girl.  Eddie  had 
never  thought  of  it.  He  was  horrified  to  realize 
how  heartless  and  negligent  he  had  been.  He 
promised  to  get  one  in  at  once. 

Pheeny  stormed  and  wept  against  the  very 
idea;  but  her  protests  ended  on  the  morning 
when  she  could  not  get  up  to  cook  Eddie's  break- 
fast for  him.  He  had  to  get  his  own  and  hers, 
and  he  was  late  at  the  office  for  the  first  time  in 
years.  Two  householders,  seeing  him  going  by, 
looked  at  their  clocks  and  set  them  back  half  an 
hour. 

Jabez  spoke  harshly  to  Eddie  about  his  tardiness. 
It  would  never  do  to  ignore  an  imperfection  in  the 
perfect.  Eddie  was  Pheeny's  nurse  that  night  and 
overslept  in  the  morning.  It  would  have  made 
him  late  again  if  he  had  stopped  to  fry  an  egg  or 
boil  a  cup  of  coffee.  He  ran  breakfastless  to  his 
desk. 

After  that  Pheeny  consented  to  the  engagement  of 
a  cook.  They  tried  five  or  six  before  they  found  one 
who  combined  the  traits  of  being  both  enduring  and 
endurable. 

Eddie  was  afraid  of  her  to  a  pitiful  degree.  She 
put  too  much  coffee  in  his  coffee  and  she  made 
lighter  bread  than  Pheeny  did. 

"There's  no  substance  to  her  biscuits!"  Eddie 
wailed,  hoping  to  comfort  Pheeny,  who  had  leisure 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

enough  now  to  develop  at  that  late  date  her  first 
acquaintance  with  jealousy. 


XII 

The  cook  was  young  and  vigorous,  and  a  hired 
man  on  a  farm  might  have  called  her  good-looking; 
but  her  charms  did  not  interest  Eddie.  His  soul  was 
replete  with  the  companionship  of  his  other  self — 
Pheeny;  and  if  Delia  had  been  as  sumptuous  a 
beauty  as  Cleopatra  he  would  have  been  still  more 
afraid  of  her.  He  had  no  more  desire  to  possess 
her  than  to  own  the  Kohinoor. 

And  Delia,  in  her  turn,  was  far  more  interested  in 
the  winks  and  flatteries  of  the  grocer's  boy  and  the 
milkman  than  in  any  conquest  of  the  fussy  little  fat 
man,  who  ate  whatever  she  slammed  before  him 
and  never  raised  his  eyes. 

Pheeny,  however,  could  not  imagine  this.  She 
could  not  know  how  secure  she  was  in  Eddie's  heart,, 
or  how  she  had  grown  in  and  about  his  soul  until  she 
fairly  permeated  his  being. 

So  Pheeny  lay  up  in  the  prison  of  her  bed  and 
imagined  vain  things,  interpreting  the  goings-on 
down-stairs  with  a  fantastic  cynicism  that  would 
have  startled  Boccaccio.  She  did  not  openly  charge 
Eddie  with  these  fancied  treacheries.  She  found  him 
guilty  silently  and  silently  acquitted  him  of  fault, 
abjectly  asking  herself  what  right  she  had  to  deny  him 
all  acquaintance  with  beauty,  hilarity,  and  health. 

32 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

She  remembered  her  mother's  eternal  moan, 
"All  men  are  alike."  She  dramatized  her  poor 
mouse  of  a  husband  as  a  devastating  Don  Juan; 
and  then  forgave  him,  as  most  of  the  victims  of 
Don  Juan's  ruthless  piracies  forgave  him. 

She  suffered  hideously,  however.  Eddie,  seeing 
the  deep,  sad  look  of  her  eyes  as  they  studied  him, 
wondered  and  wondered,  and  often  asked  her  what 
the  matter  was;  but  she  always  smiled  as  a  mother 
smiles  at  a  child  that  is  too  sweet  to  punish  for  any 
mischief,  and  she  always  answered:  "Nothing! 
Nothing!"  But  then  she  would  sigh  to  the  caverns 
of  her  soul.  And  sometimes  tears  would  drip  from 
her  brimming  lids  to  her  pillow.  Still,  she  would 
tell  him  nothing  but  "Nothing!" 

Finally  the  long  repose  repaired  her  worn-out 
sinews  and  she  grew  well  enough  to  move  about  the 
house.  She  prospered  on  the  medicine  of  a  new 
hope  that  she  should  soon  be  well  enough  to  expel 
the  third  person  who  made  a  crowd  of  their  little 
home. 

And  then  Luella  Thickins  came  back  to  town. 
Luella  had  married  long  before  and  moved  away; 
but  now  she  came  back  a  widow,  handsome  instead 
of  pretty,  billowy  instead  of  willowy,  seductive  in- 
stead of  spoony,  and  with  that  fearsome  menace 
a  widow  carries  like  a  cloud  about  her. 

Eddie  spoke  of  meeting  her  "down-town,"  and 
in  his  fatuous  innocence  announced  that  she  was 
"as  pirty  as  ever."  If  he  had  hit  Pheeny  with  a 

33 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

hatchet    he    would    have    inflicted    a    less    painful 
wound. 

XIII 

Luella's  presence  cast  Pheeny  into  a  profounder 
dismay  than  she  had  ever  felt  about  the  cook. 
After  all,  Delia  was  only  a  hired  girl,  while  Luella 
was  an  old  sweetheart.  Delia  had  put  wicked  ideas 
into  Eddie's  head  and  now  Luella  would  finish  him. 
As  Ellaphine's  mother  had  always  said,  "Men  have 
to  have  novelty." 

The  Lord  Himself  had  never  seen  old  Mr.  Covers 
stray  an  inch  aside  from  the  straight  path  of  fidelity; 
but  his  wife  had  enhanced  him  with  a  lifelong  sus- 
picion that  eventually  established  itself  as  historical 
fact. 

Pheeny  could  find  some  excuse  for  Eddie's  Don 
Juanity  with  the  common  clay  of  Delia,  especially 
as  she  never  quite  believed  her  own  beliefs  in  that 
affair;  but  Luella  was  different.  Luella  had  been  a 
rival.  The  merest  courtesy  to  Luella  was  an  un- 
pardonable affront  to  every  sacred  right  of  suc- 
cessful rivalry. 

The  submerged  bitternesses  that  had  gathered  in 
her  soul  like  bubbles  at  the  bottom  of  a  hot  kettle 
came  showering  upward  now,  and  her  heart  simmered 
and  thrummed,  ready  to  boil  over  if  the  heat  were 
not  removed. 

One  day,  soon,  Luella  fastened  on  Eddie  as  he  left 
the  factory  to  go  home  to  dinner.  She  had  loitered 

34 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

about,  hoping  to  engage  the  eye  of  Jabez,  who  was 
now  the  most  important  widower  in  town.  Luella 
had  elected  him  for  her  next;  but  he  was  away, 
and  she  whetted  her  wits  on  Eddie.  She  walked  at 
his  side,  excruciating  him  with  her  glib  memories 
of  old  times  and  the  mad  devotion  he  had  cherished 
for  her  then. 

He  felt  that  it  was  unfaithful  of  him  even  to  listen 
to  her,  but  he  could  not  spur  up  courage  enough  to 
bolt  and  run.  He  Welcomed  the  sight  of  his  own 
gate  as  an  asylum  of  refuge.  To  his  horror,  Luella 
stopped  and  continued  her  chatter,  draping  herself 
in  emotional  attitudes  and  italicizing  her  coquetries. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  drawl  languorous  words  that 
her  lips  dared  not  voice;  and  she  committed  the 
heinous  offense  of  plucking  at  Eddie's  coat-sleeve 
and  clinging  to  his  hand.  Then  she  walked  on  like 
an  erect  cobra. 

Eddie's  very  back  had  felt  that  Pheeny  was 
watching  him  from  one  of  the  windows  or  from  all 
the  windows;  for  when,  at  last,  he  achieved  the 
rude  victory  of  breaking  away  from  Luella  and 
turned  toward  the  porch,  every  window  was  a 
somber  eye  of  reproach. 

He  would  not  have  looked  so  guilty  if  he  had 
been  guilty.  He  shuffled  into  the  house  like  a  boy 
who  comes  home  late  from  swimming;  and  when  he 
called  aloud  " Pheeny!  Oh,  Pheeny!"  his  voice 
cracked  and  his  throat  was  uncertain  with  phlegm. 

He  found  Pheeny  up-stairs  in  their  room,  with  the 

4  35 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

door  closed.  He  closed  it  after  him  when  he  went 
in.  He  feigned  a  care-free  joy  at  the  sight  of  her, 
and  stumbled  over  his  own  foot  as  he  crossed  the 
room  and  put  his  arms  about  her,  where  she  sat  in 
the  big  rocking-chair;  but  she  brushed  his  arms 
aside  and  bent  her  cheek  away  from  his  pursed  lips. 
This  startled  him,  and  he  gasped: 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  honey?  Why  don't 
you  kiss  me?" 

"You  don't  want  to  kiss  me,"  she  muttered. 

"Why  don't  I?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Because  I'm  not  pirty.  I'm  not  young.  I'm 
not  round  or  tall.  I  haven't  got  nice  clothes  or 
those  terrible  manners  that  men  like  in  women. 
You're  tired  of  me.  I  don't  blame  you;  but  you 
don't  have  to  kiss  me,  and  you  don't  want  to." 

It  was  a  silly  sort  of  contest  for  so  old  a  couple; 
but  their  souls  felt  as  young  as  childhood,  or  younger, 
and  this  debate  was  all-important.  He  caught  at 
her  again  and  tried  to  drag  her  head  to  his  lips, 
pleading  inanely: 

"Of  course  I  want  to  kiss  you,  honey!  Of  course 
I  do!  Please — please  don't  be  this  way!" 

But  she  evaded  him  still,  and  glared  at  him  as 
from  a  great  distance,  sneering  rather  at  herself 
than  him  and  using  that  old  byword  of  Luella's: 

"What  can  you  see  in  me?"  Suddenly  she  chal- 
lenged him:  "Who  do  you  kiss  when  you  kiss  me?" 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  while  as  if  he  were  not 
sure  who  she  was.  Then  he  sat  down  on  the  broad 

36 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

arm  of  her  chair  and  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his — 
the  hand  with  the  wedding-ring  on  it — and  seemed 
to  talk  to  the  hand  more  than  to  her,  lifting  the 
fingers  one  after  another  and  studying  each  digit 
as  though  it  had  a  separate  personality — as  perhaps 
it  had. 

XIV 

"Who  do  I  kiss  when  I  kiss  you?  That's  a  funny 
question!" 

He  laughed  solemnly.  Then  he  made  a  very  long 
speech,  for  him;  and  she  listened  to  it  with  the  at- 
tention due  to  that  most  fascinating  of  themes,  the 
discussion  of  oneself  by  another. 

"Pheeny,  when  I  was  about  knee-high  to  a  grass- 
hopper I  went  over  to  play  in  Tim  Holdredge's 
father's  orchard;  and  when  I  started  for  home  there 
was  a  big  dawg  in  old  Mrs.  Pittinger's  front  yard, 
and  it  jumped  round  and  barked  at  me.  I  guess 
it  was  just  playing,  because,  as  I  remember  it  now, 
it  was  wagging  its  tail,  and  afterward  I  found  out 
it  was  only  a  cocker  spaniel;  but  I  thought  it  was  a 
wolf  and  was  going  to  eat  me.  I  begun  to  cry,  and 
I  was  afraid  to  go  backward  or  to  go  forward.  And 
by  and  by  a  little  girl  came  along  and  asked  me  what 
I  was  crying  about,  and  I  said,  'About  the  dawg!' 
And  the  little  girl  said:  'O-oh!  He's  big,  ain't 
he?'  And  I  said,  'He's  goin*  to  eat  one  of  us  all 
up!'  And  the  little  girl  said:  'Aw,  don't  you  care! 
You  take  a-holt  of  my  hand  and  I'll  run  past  with 

37 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

you;  and  if  he  bites  he'll  bite  me  first  and  you  can 
git  away!'  She  was  as  scared  as  I  was,  but  she 
grabbed  my  hand  and  we  got  by  without  being  et 
up.  Do  you  remember  who  that  little  girl  was?" 

The  hand  in  his  seemed  to  remember.  The 
fingers  of  it  closed  on  his  a  moment,  then  relaxed  as 
if  to  listen  for  more.  He  mused  on : 

"I  wasn't  very  big  for  my  size  even  then,  and  I 
wasn't  very  brave  ever.  I  didn't  like  to  fight,  like 
the  other  boys  did,  and  I  used  to  rather  take  a 
lickin'  than  give  one.  Well,  one  day  I  was  playin' 
marbles  with  another  boy,  and  he  said  I  cheated 
when  I  won  his  big  taw;  but  I  didn't.  He  wanted 
to  fight,  though,  and  he  hit  me;  and  I  wouldn't  hit 
back.  He  was  smaller  than  what  I  was,  and  he  give 
me  a  lot  of  lip  and  dared  me  to  fight;  and  I  just 
couldn't.  He  said  I  was  afraid,  and  so  did  the  other 
boys;  and  I  guess  I  was.  It  seemed  to  me  I  was 
more  afraid  of  hurtin'  somebody  else  than  gettin' 
hurt  myself;  but  I  guess  I  was  just  plain  afraid. 
The  other  boys  began  to  push  me  round  and  call 
me  a  cowardy  calf,  and  I  began  to  cry.  I  wanted 
to  run  home,  but  I  was  afraid  to  start  to  run.  And 
then  a  little  girl  came  along  and  said:  'What's  the 
matter,  Eddie?  What  you  cryin'  for?'  And  I  said, 
*  They're  all  pickin'  on  me  and  callin'  me  cowardy 
calf!'  And  she  said:  'Don't  you  care!  You  come 
right  along  with  me;  and  if  one  of  'em  says  another 
word  to  you  I'll  scratch  their  nasty  eyes  out!'  Do 
you  remember  that,  Pheeny?" 

38 


DON'T   YOU   CARE! 

Her  other  hand  came  forward  and  embraced  his 
wrist. 

"And  another  time  you  found  me  cryin*.  I  was 
a  little  older,  and  I'd  studied  hard  and  tried  to  get 
my  lessons  good;  but  I  failed  in  the  exam'nations, 
and  I  was  goin'  to  tie  a  rock  round  my  neck  and  jump 
in  the  pond.  But  you  said:  'Aw,  don't  you  care, 
Eddie!  I  didn't  pass  in  mine,  either!' 

"And  when  I  wanted  to  go  to  college,  and  Uncle 
Loren  wouldn't  send  me,  I  didn't  cry  outside,  but  I 
cried  inside;  and  I  told  you  and  you  said:  'Don't 
you  care!  I  don't  get  to  go  to  boardin'-school 
myself.' 

"And  when  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  I  liked 
that  no-account  Luella  Thickins,  and  thought  I'd 
go  crazy  because  her  wax-doll  face  wouldn't  smile 
for  me,  you  said:  'Don't  you  care,  Eddie!  You're 
much  too  good  for  her.  I  think  you're  the  finest 
man  in  the  country.* 

"And  when  the  baby  didn't  come  and  I  acted  like 
a  baby  myself,  you  said:  'Don't  you  care,  Eddie! 
Ain't  we  got  each  other?' 

"Seems  like  ev'ry  time  I  been  ready  to  lay  down 
and  die  you've  been  there  with  your  old  '  Don't  you 
care!  It's  going  to  be  all  right!' 

"Just  last  night  I  had  a  tumble  dream.  I  didn't 
tell  you  about  it  for  fear  it  would  upset  you.  I 
dreamed  I  got  awful  sick  at  the  office.  I  couldn't 
seem  to  add  the  figures  right  and  the  old  desk 
wabbled.  Finally  I  had  to  leave  off  and  start 

39 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

for  home,  though  it  was  only  a  quarter  of  twelve; 
and  I  had  to  set  down  on  Doc  Noxon's  horse-block 
and  on  Holdredge's  wall  to  rest;  and  I  couldn't 
get  our  gate  open.  And  you  run  out  and  dragged  me 
in,  and  got  me  up-stairs  somehow,  and  sent  Delia 
around  for  the  doctor. 

"Doc  Noxon  made  you  have  a  trained  nurse,  but 
I  couldn't  stand  her;  and  I  wouldn't  take  medicine 
from  anybody  but  you.  I  don't  suppose  I  was 
dreamin'  more  'n  a  few  minutes,  all  told;  but  it 
seemed  like  I  laid  there  for  weeks,  till  one  day  Doc 
Noxon  called  you  out  of  the  room.  I  couldn't  hear 
what  he  was  saying,  but  I  heard  you  let  out  one 
horrible  scream,  and  then  I  heard  sounds  like  he  was 
chokin'  you,  and  you  kept  sayin':  'Oh  no!  No! 
No!' 

"I  tried  to  go  and  help  you,  but  I  couldn't  lift  my 
head.  By  and  by  you  come  back,  with  your  eyes  all 
red.  Doc  Noxon  was  with  you  and  he  called  the 
nurse  over  to  him.  You  come  to  me  and  tried  to 
smile;  and  you  said: 

"Well,  honey,  how  are  you  now?' 

"Then  I  knew  what  the  doctor  had  told  you 
and  I  was  worse  scared  than  when  the  black  dawg 
jumped  at  me.  I  tried  to  be  brave,  but  I  never 
could  seem  to  be.  I  put  out  my  hands  to  you  and 
hollered: 

"'Pheeny,  I'm  goin'  to  die!  I  know  I'm  goin'  to 
die!  Don't  let  me  go!  I'm  afraid  to  die!"1 

Now  the  hands  clenched  his  with  a  frenzy  that 

40 


DON'T   YOU    CARE! 

hurt — but  beautifully.  And  he  kissed  the  wedding- 
ring  as  he  finished: 

"And  you  dropped  down  to  me  on  the  floor  by 
the  bed  and  took  my  hands — just  like  that.  And 
you  whispered:  'Don't  you  care,  honey!  I'll  go 
with  you.  Don't  you  care !' 

"And  the  fever  seemed  to  cool  out  of  me,  and  I 
kind  of  smiled  and  wasn't  afraid  any  more;  and  I 
turned  my  face  to  you  and  kissed  you — like  this, 
Pheeny. 

"Why,  you've  been  cryin',  haven't  you?  You 
mustn't  cry — you  mustn't!  All  those  girls  I  been 
tellin'  you  about  are  the  girl  I  kiss  when  I  kiss  you, 
Pheeny.  There  couldn't  be  anybody  as  beautiful  as 
you  are  to  me. 

"I  ain't  'mounted  to  much;  but  it  ain't  your 
fault.  I  wouldn't  have  'mounted  to  anything  at  all 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  Pheeny;  and  I  been  the 
happiest  feller  in  all  this  world — or  I  have  been  up 
to  now.  I'm  awful  lonedsome  just  now.  Don't  you 
s'pose  you  could  spare  me  a  kiss?" 

She  spared  him  one. 

Then  the  cook  pounded  on  the  door  and  called 
through  in  a  voice  that  threatened  to  warp  the 
panels:  "Ain't  you  folks  ever  comin'  down  to  din- 
ner? I've  rang  the  bell  three  times.  Everything's 
all  cold!" 

But  it  wasn't.     Everything  was  all  warm. 


POP 


THEY  made  a  handsome  family  group,  with  just 
the  one  necessary  element  of  contrast. 

Father  was  the  contrast. 

They  were  convened  within  and  about  the  big 
three-walled  divan  which,  according  to  the  fashion, 
was  backed  up  against  a  long  library-table  in  what 
they  now  called  the  living-room.  It  had  once  been 
the  sitting-room  and  had  contained  a  what-isn't-it 
and  a  sofa  like  an  enormous  bald  caterpillar,  crowded 
against  the  wall  so  that  you  could  fall  off  only  one 
side  of  it. 

It  was  a  family  reunion  and  unexpected.  Father 
was  not  convened  with  the  rest,  but  sat  off  in  the 
shadow  and  counted  the  feet  sticking  out  from  the 
divan  and  protruding  from  the  chairs.  He  counted 
fourteen  feet,  including  his  wife's  and  excluding  his 
own.  All  the  feet  were  expensively  shod  except  his 
own. 

Three  of  the  children  had  come  home  for  a  visit,  and 
father,  glad  as  he  was  to  see  them,  had  a  vague  feel- 
ing that  they  had  been  brought  in  by  some  other 

42 


POP 

motive  than  their  loudly  proclaimed  homesickness. 
He  was  willing  to  wait  until  they  disclosed  it,  for  he 
had  an  idea  what  it  was  and  he  was  always  glad  to 
postpone  a  payment.  It  meant  so  much  less  interest 
to  lose.  Father  was  a  business  man. 

Father  was  also  dismally  computing  the  addition 
to  the  grocery  bills,  the  butchery  bills,  and  livery 
bills,  and  the  others.  He  was  figuring  out  the  added 
expense  of  the  dinner,  with  roast  beef  now  costing  as 
much  as  peacocks'  tongues.  He  had  raised  a  large 
family  and  there  was  not  a  dyspeptic  in  the  lot — 
not  even  a  banter. 

They  had  been  photographed  together  the  day 
before  and  the  proof  had  just  come  home.  Father 
was  not  in  the  picture.  It  was  a  handsome  picture. 
They  admitted  it  themselves.  They  had  urged  father 
to  come  along,  but  he  had  pleaded  his  business,  as 
usual.  As  they  studied  the  picture  they  would 
glance  across  at  father  and  realize  how  little  the 
picture  lost  by  his  absence.  It  lost  nothing  but  the 
contrast. 

While  they  were  engaged  each  in  that  most 
fascinating  of  employments — studying  one's  own 
photograph — they  were  all  waiting  for  the  dining- 
room  maid  to  appear  like  a  black-and-white  sketch 
and  crisply  announce  that  dinner  was  served.  They 
had  not  arrived  yet  at  having  a  man.  Indeed, 
that  room  could  still  remember  when  a  frowsy, 
blowsy  hired  girl  was  wont  to  stick  her  head  in  and 
groan,  "Supper's  ready!" 

43 


IN    A    LITTLE   TOWN 

In  fact,  mother  had  never  been  able  to  live  down  a 
memory  of  the  time  when  she  used  to  put  her  own 
head  in  at  a  humbler  dining-room  door  and  call  with 
all  the  anger  that  cooks  up  in  a  cook:  "Come  on! 
What  we  got's  on  the  table!"  But  mother  had  en- 
tirely forgotten  the  first  few  months  of  her  married 
life,  when  she  would  sing  out  to  father:  "Oh,  honey, 
help  me  set  the  table,  will  you?  I've  a  surprise  for 
you — something  you  like!" 

This  family  had  evolved  along  the  cycles  so  many 
families  go  through — from  pin  feathers  to  paradise 
plumes — only,  the  male  bird  had  failed  to  improve 
his  feathers  or  his  song,  though  he  never  failed 
to  bring  up  the  food  and  keep  the  nest  thatched. 

The  history  of  an  American  family  can  often  be 
traced  by  its  monuments  in  the  names  the  children 
call  the  mother.  Mrs.  Grout  had  begun  as — just 
one  Ma.  Eventually  they  doubled  that  and  pro- 
gressed from  the  accent  on  the  first  to  the  accent 
on  the  second  ma.  Years  later  one  of  the  in- 
articulate brats  had  come  home  as  a  collegian  in  a 
funny  hat,  and  Mama  had  become  Mater.  This 
had  lasted  until  one  of  the  brattines  came  home  as  a 
collegienne  with  a  swagger  and  a  funny  sweater. 
And  then  her  Latin  title  was  Frenchified  to  Mere — 
which  always  gave  father  a  shock;  for  father  had 
been  raised  on  a  farm,  where  only  horses'  wives  were 
called  by  that  name. 

Father  had  been  dubbed  Pop  at  an  early  date. 
Efforts  to  change  this  title  had  been  as  futile  as  the 

44 


POP 

terrific  endeavors  to  keep  him  from  propping  his  knife 
against  his  plate.  He  had  been  browbeaten  out  of 
using  the  blade  for  transportation  purposes,  but  at 
that  point  he  had  simply  ceased  to  develop. 

Names  like  Pappah,  Pater,  and  Pere  would  not 
cling  to  him;  they  fell  off  at  once.  Pop  he  was 
always  called  to  his  face,  whether  he  were  referred 
to  abroad  as  "the  old  man,"  "the  governor,"  or 
"our  dear  father." 

The  evolution  of  the  Grout  family  could  be 
traced  still  more  clearly  in  the  names  the  parents 
had  given  the  children.  The  eldest  was  a  daughter, 
though  when  she  grew  up  she  dropped  back  in  the 
line  and  became  ever  so  much  younger  than  her 
next  younger  brothers.  She  might  have  fallen  still 
farther  to  the  rear  if  she  had  not  run  up  against 
another  daughter  who  had  her  own  age  to  keep  down. 

The  eldest  daughter,  born  in  the  grim  days  of  early 
penury,  had  been  grimly  entitled  Julia.  The  fol- 
lowing child,  a  son,  was  soberly  called  by  his  father's 
given  and  his  mother's  maiden  names — John  Pen- 
nock  Grout,  or  Jno.  P.,  as  his  father  wrote  it. 

A  year  or  two  later  there  appeared  another  hostage. 
Labeling  him  was  a  matter  of  deep  concern.  John 
urged  his  own  father's  name,  William;  but  the 
mother  wafted  this  away  with  a  gesture  of  airy 
disgust.  There  was  a  hired  girl  in  the  kitchen  now 
and  mother  was  reading  a  good  many  novels  be- 
tween stitches.  She  debated  long  and  hard  while 
the  child  waited  anonymous.  At  length  she  ven- 

45 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

tured  on  Gerald.  She  changed  that  two  or  three 
times  and  the  boy  had  a  narrow  escape  from  Syl- 
vester. He  came  perilously  near  to  carrying  Abelard 
through  an  amused  world;  but  she  harked  back  to 
Gerald — which  he  spelled  Jerrold  at  times. 

Then  two  daughters  entered  the  family  in  succes- 
sion and  were  stamped  Beatrice — pronounced  Bay-ah- 
treat-she  by  those  who  had  the  time  and  the  energy — 
and  Consuelo,  which  Pop  would  call  Counser-eller. 

By  this  time  Julia  had  grown  up  and  was  be- 
ginning at  finishing-school.  She  soon  saw  that 
Julia  would  never  do — never!  She  had  started  with 
a  handicap,  but  she  caught  up  with  the  rest  and 
passed  them  gracefully  by  ingeniously  altering  the 
final  a  to  an  ^,  and  pronouncing  it  Zheelee. 

Her  father  never  could  get  within  hailing  distance  of 
the  French/  and  u,  and  teetered  awkwardly  between 
Jilly  and  Jelly.  He  was  apt  to  relax  sickeningly  into 
plain  Julia — especially  before  folks,  when  he  was 
nervous  anyway.  Only  they  did  not  say  "before 
folks"  now;  the  Grouts  never  said  "before  folks" 
now — they  said,  "In  the  presence  of  guests." 

By  the  time  the  next  son  came  the  mother  was 
shamelessly  literary  enough  to  name  him  Ethelwolf, 
which  his  school  companions  joyously  abbreviated 
to  Ethel,  overlooking  the  wolf. 

Ethelwolf  was  the  last  of  the  visitors.  For  by  this 
time  Mere  had  accumulated  so  many  absolutely  unfor- 
givable grievances  against  her  absolutely  impossible 
husband  that  she  felt  qualified  for  that  crown  of 

46 


POP 

comfortable  martyrhood,  that  womanly  ideal,  "a 
wife  in  name  only  " — and  only  that  "for  the  sake  of 
the  children." 

By  this  time  the  children,  too,  had  acquired 
grievances  against  Pop.  The  more  refined  they  grew 
the  coarser-grained  he  seemed.  They  could  not 
pulverize  him  in  the  coffee-mill  of  criticism.  He  was 
as  hopeless  in  ideas  as  in  language.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  make  him  realize  that  the  best  is  always  the 
cheapest;  that  fine  clothes  make  fine  people;  that 
petty  economies  are  death  to  "the  larger  flights  of 
the  soul";  and  that  parents  have  no  right  to  have 
children  unless  they  can  give  them  what  other 
people's  children  have. 

If  John  Grout  complained  that  he  was  not  a 
millionaire  the  younger  Grouts  retorted  that  this 
was  not  their  fault,  but  their  misfortune;  and  it  was 
"up  to  Pop"  to  do  the  best  he  could  during  what 
Mere  was  now  calling  their  "formative  years." 
The  children  had  liberal  ideas,  artistic  and  refined 
ideals;  but  Pop  was  forever  talking  poor,  always 
splitting  pennies,  always  dolefully  reiterating,  "I 
don't  know  where  the  money  is  coming  from!" 

It  was  so  foolish  of  him,  too — for  it  always  came 
from  somewhere.  The  children  went  to  the  best 
schools,  traveled  in  Europe,  wore  as  good  clothes  as 
anybody — though  they  did  not  admit  this,  of  course, 
within  father's  hearing,  lest  it  put  false  notions  into 
his  head;  and  the  sons  made  investments  that  had 
not  yet  begun  to  turn  out  right. 

47 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Parents  cannot  fool  their  children  long,  and  the 
Grout  youngsters  had  learned  at  an  early  date  that 
Pop  always  forked  over  when  he  was  nagged  into  it. 
Any  of  the  children  in  trouble  could  always  write  or 
telegraph  home  a  "must  have,"  and  it  was  always 
forthcoming.  There  usually  followed  a  querulous 
note  about  "Sorry  you  have  to  have  so  much,  but  I 
suppose  it  costs  a  lot  where  you  are.  Make  it  go 
as  far  as  you  can,  for  I'm  a  little  pinched  just  now." 
But  this  was  taken  as  a  mere  detail — an  unfortunate 
paternal  habit. 

That  was  Pop's  vice — his  only  one  and  about  the 
least  attractive  of  vices.  It  was  harrowing  to  be  the 
children  of  a  miser — for  he  must  have  a  lot  hoarded 
away.  His  poor  talk,  his  allusions  to  notes  at  the 
bank  and  mortgages  and  drafts  to  meet,  were  just 
bogies  to  frighten  them  with  and  to  keep  them 
down. 

It  was  most  humiliating  for  high-spirited  children 
to  be  so  misunderstood.  Pop  lacked  refined  tastes. 
It  was  a  harsh  thing  to  say  of  one's  parent,  but  when 
you  came  right  down  to  it  Pop  was  a  hopeless 
plebeian. 

Pop  noticed  the  difference  himself.  He  would 
have  doubted  that  these  magnificent  youngsters 
could  be  his  own  if  that  had  not  implied  a  criticism 
of  his  unimpeachable  wife.  ,.  So^he  gave  her  all  the 
credit.  For  Mere  was  different.  She  was  well  read; 
she  entertained  charmingly;  she  loved  good  clothes, 
up-to-the-minute  hats;  she  knew  who  was  who  and 

48 


POP 

what  was  what.  She  was  ambitious,  progressive. 
She  nearly  took  up  French  once. 

But  Pop  was  shabby.  Pop  always  wore  a  suit 
until  it  glistened  and  his  children  ridiculed  him  into  a 
new  one.  As  for  wearing  evening  dress,  in  the  words 
of  Gerald  they  "had  to  blindfold  him  and  back  him 
into  his  soup-and-fish,  even  on  the  night  the  Italian 
Opera  Company  came  to  town." 

Pop  never  could  take  them  anywhere.  A  vaca- 
tion was  a  thing  of  horror  to  him.  It  was  almost 
impossible  to  drag  him  to  a  lake  or  the  sea,  and  it 
was  quite  impossible  to  keep  him  there  more  than  a 
few  days.  His  business  always  called  him  home. 

And  such  a  business!  Dry-goods! — and  in  a  small 
town. 

And  such  a  town,  with  such  a  name!  To  the 
children  who  knew  their  Paris  and  their  London, 
their  New  York  and  their  Washington,  a  visit  home 
was  like  a  sentence  to  jail.  It  was  humiliating  to 
make  a  good  impression  on  acquaintances  of  im- 
portance and  then  have  to  confess  to  a  home  town 
named  Waupoos. 

People  either  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon!"  as  if  they 
had  not  heard  it  right,  or  they  laughed  and  said, 
"Honestly?" 

The  children  had  tried  again  and  again  to  pry 
Pop  out  of  Waupoos,  but  he  clung  to  it  like  a  limpet. 
He  had  had  opportunities,  too,  to  move  his  business 
to  big  cities,  but  he  was  afraid  to  venture.  He  was 
fairly  sure  of  sustenance  in  Waupoos  so  long  as  he 

49 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

nursed  every  penny;  but  he  could  never  find  the 
courage  to  transplant  himself  to  another  place. 

The  worst  of  his  cowardice  was  that  he  blamed 
the  children — at  least,  he  said  he  dared  not  face  a 
year  or  two  of  possible  loss  lest  they  might  need 
something.  So  he  stayed  in  Waupoos  and  managed 
somehow  to  keep  the  family  afloat  and  the  store  open. 

When  Mere  revolted  and  longed  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  outer  world  he  always  advised  her  to  take  a 
trip  and  have  a  good  time.  He  always  said  he  could 
afford  that  much,  and  he  took  an  interest  in  seeing 
that  she  had  funds  to  buy  some  city  clothes  with; 
but  he  never  had  funds  enough  to  go  along. 

That  was  one  of  mother's  grievances.  Pop  bored 
her  to  death  at  home  and  she  wanted  to  scream  every 
time  he  mentioned  his  business — it  was  so  selfish 
of  him  to  talk  of  that  at  night  when  she  had  so  much 
to  tell  him  of  the  misbehavior  of  the  servants.  But, 
greatly  as  he  annoyed  her  round  the  house,  she 
cherished  an  illusion  that  she  would  like  him  in  a 
hotel. 

She  had  tried  to  get  him  to  read  a  certain  novel 
— a  wonderful  book  mercilessly  exposing  the  curse  of 
modern  America;  which  is  the  men's  habit  of  stick- 
ing to  their  business  so  closely  that  they  give  their 
poor  wives  no  companionship.  They  leave  their  poor 
wives  to  languish  at  home  or  to  go  shopping  or 
gossiping,  while  they  indulge  themselves  in  the 
luxuries  of  vibration  between  creditor  and  debtor. 

In  this  novel,  and  in  several  others  she  could  have 

So 


POP 

named,  the  poor  wife  naturally  fell  a  prey  to  the 
fascinations  of  a  handsome  devil  with  dark  eyes, 
a  motor  or  two,  and  no  office  hours. 

Mere  often  wondered  why  she  herself  had  not  taken 
up  with  some  handsome  devil  fully  equipped  for  the 
entertainment  of  neglected  wives. 

If  she  had  not  been  a  member  of  that  stanch 
American  womanhood  to  which  the  glory  of  the 
country  and  its  progress  are  really  due,  she  might 
have  startled  her  husband  into  realizing  too  late, 
as  the  too-late  husbands  in  the  novels  realized, 
that  a  man's  business  is  a  side  issue  and  that  the 
perpetuation  of  romance  is  the  main  task.  Her  self- 
respect  was  all  that  held  Mere  to  the  home;  that  and 
— whisper! — the  fact  that  no  handsome  devil  with 
any  kind  of  eyes  ever  tried  to  lure  her  away. 

When  she  reproached  Pop  and  threatened  him  he 
refused  to  be  scared.  He  paid  his  wife  that  most 
odious  of  tributes — a  monotonous  trust  in  her  loy- 
alty and  an  insulting  immunity  to  jealousy.  Almost 
worse  was  his  monotonous  loyalty  to  her  and  his  fail- 
ure to  give  her  jealousy  any  excuse. 

They  quarreled  incessantly,  but  the  wrangles  were 
not  gorgeously  dramatic  charges  of  intrigue  with 
handsome  men  or  painted  women,  followed  by  rap- 
turous make-ups.  They  were  quarrels  over  ex- 
penditures, extravagances,  and  voyages. 

Mere  charged  Pop  with  parsimony  and  he  charged 
her  with  recklessness.  She  accused  him  of  trying  to 
tie  them  down  to  a  village;  he  accused  her  of  trying 

5  I 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

to  drive  him  to  bankruptcy.  She  demanded  to  know 
whether  he  wanted  his  children  to  be  like  children  of 
their  neighbors  —  clerks  in  small  stores,  starveling 
tradespeople  and  wives  of  little  merchants.  He  an- 
swered that  she  was  breeding  a  pack  of  snobs  that 
despised  their  father  and  had  no  mercy  on  him — 
and  no  use  for  him  except  as  a  lemon  to  squeeze  dry. 
She  answered  with  a  laugh  of  scorn  that  lemon  was  a 
good  word;  and  he  threw  up  his  hands  and  returned 
to  the  shop  if  the  war  broke  out  at  noon,  or  slunk 
up  to  bed  if  it  followed  dinner. 

This  was  the  pattern  of  their  daily  life.  Every 
night  there  was  a  new  theme,  but  the  duet  they  built 
on  it  ran  along  the  same  formulas. 

The  children  sided  with  Mere,  of  course.  In  the 
first  place,  she  was  a  poor,  downtrodden  woman; 
in  the  second,  she  was  their  broker.  Her  job  was  to 
get  them  things.  They  gave  her  the  credit  for  what 
she  got  them.  They  gave  Pop  no  praise  for  yielding 
— no  credit  for  extracting  somehow  from  the  dry- 
soil  of  an  arid  town  the  money  they  extracted  from 
him.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  myriad  little 
agonies,  the  ingenuity,  the  tireless  attention  to  de- 
tail, the  exquisite  finesse  that  make  success  possible 
in  the  melee  of  competition.  Their  souls  were  above 
trade  and  its  petty  nigglings. 

Jno.  P.,  who  was  now  known  as  J.  Pennock,  was 
aiming  at  a  million  dollars  in  New  York,  and  his 
mother  was  sure  that  he  would  get  it  next  time  if 
Pop  would  only  raise  him  a  little  more  money  to  meet 

52 


POP 

an  irritating  obligation  or  seize  a  glittering  op- 
portunity. Pop  always  raised  the  money  and  J. 
Pennock  always  lost  it.  Yet  Pennock  was  a  financier 
and  Pop  was  a  village  merchant.  And  now  Pen 
had  come  home  unexpectedly.  He  was  showing  a 
great  interest  in  Pop's  affairs. 

Gerald  was  home  also  unexpectedly.  He  was  an 
artist  of  the  most  wonderful  promise.  None  of  his 
promises  was  more  wonderful  than  those  he  made  his 
father  to  repay  just  one  more  loan — to  tide  him 
over  until  he  sold  his  next  picture;  but  it  never  sold, 
or  it  sold  for  a  mere  song.  Gerald  solaced  himself 
and  Mere  solaced  him  for  being  ahead  of  his  time, 
unappreciated,  too  good  for  the  public.  She  thanked 
Heaven  that  Gerald  was  a  genius,  not  a  salesman. 
One  salesman  in  the  family  was  enough! 

And  Gerald  had  beaten  Pen  home  by  one  train. 
He  had  greeted  Pen  somewhat  coldly — as  if  Pen  were 
a  trespasser  on  his  side  of  the  street.  And  when  it 
was  learned  that  Julie  had  telegraphed  that  she  would 
arrive  the  next  day,  both  the  brothers  had  frowned. 

Pop  had  sighed.  He  was  glad  to  see  his  wonder- 
ful offspring,  but  he  had  already  put  off  the  grocer 
and  the  butcher — and  even  his  life-insurance  pre- 
mium— because  he  had  an  opportunity  by  a  quick 
use  of  cash  to  obtain  the  bankrupt  stock  of  a  rival 
dealer  who  had  not  nursed  his  pennies  as  Pop  had. 
It  was  by  such  purchases  that  Pop  had  managed  to 
keep  his  store  alive  and  his  brilliant  children  in 
funds. 

53 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  had  temporarily  drawn  his  bank  account  down 
to  the  irreducible  minimum  and  borrowed  on  his 
securities  up  to  the  insurmountable  maximum.  It 
was  a  bad  time  for  his  children  to  tap  him.  But 
here  they  were — Jno.  P.,  Jerry,  and  Julia — all  very 
unctuous  over  the  home-coming,  and  yet  all  of  them 
evidently  cherishing  an  ulterior  idea. 

He  watched  them  lounging  in  fashionable  awk- 
wardness. They  were  brilliant  children.  And  he 
was  as  proud  of  them  as  he  was  afraid  of  them — and 
for  them. 

II 

If  the  children  looked  brilliant  to  Pop  he  did  not 
reflect  their  refulgence.  As  they  glanced  from  the 
photographer's  proof  to  Pop  they  were  not  im- 
pressed. They  were  not  afraid  of  him  or  for  him. 

His  bodily  arrangement  was  pitifully  gawky;  he 
neither  sat  erect  nor  lounged — he  slumped  spineless. 
Big  spectacles  were  in  style  now,  but  Pop's  big 
spectacles  were  just  out  of  it.  His  face  was  like  a 
parchment  that  had  been  left  out  in  the  rain  and 
had  dried  carelessly  in  deep,  stiff  wrinkles — with  the 
writing  washed  off. 

Etheiwolf,  the  last  born,  had  no  ulterior  idea.  He 
always  spent  his  monthly  allowance  by  the  second 
Tuesday  after  the  first  Monday,  and  sulked  through 
a  period  of  famine  and  debt  until  the  next  month. 
It  was  now  the  third  Tuesday  and  he  was  disposed  to 
sarcasm. 

54 


POP 

"Look  at  Pop!"  he  muttered.  "He  looks  just  like 
the  old  boy  they  put  in  the  cartoons  to  represent 
The  Common  People." 

"He's  the  Beau  Brummel  of  Waupoos,  all  right!" 
said  Bayahtreatshe,  who  was  soon  returning  to 
Wellesley.  And  Consuelo,  who  was  preparing  for 
Vassar,  added  under  her  breath,  "Mere,  can't  you 
steal  up  on  him  and  swipe  that  already-tied  tie?" 

Had  Pop  overheard,  he  would  have  made  no 
complaint.  He  had  known  the  time  when  they  had 
thrown  things  at  him.  The  reverence  of  American 
children  for  their  fathers  is  almost  as  famous  as  the 
meekness  of  American  wives  before  their  husbands. 
Yet  it  might  have  hurt  Pop  a  little  to  see  Mother 
shake  her  head  and  hear  her  sigh: 

"He's  hopeless,  children!  Do  take  warning  from 
my  misfortune  and  be  careful  what  you  marry." 

Poor  Mere  had  absolutely  forgotten  how  proud  she 
had  been  when  Johnnie  Grout  came  courting  her,  and 
how  she  had  extracted  a  proposal  before  he  knew 
what  he  was  about,  and  had  him  at  the  altar  before 
he  was  ready  to  support  a  wife  in  the  style  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  hope  for.  She  remembered 
only  the  dreams  he  had  not  brought  true,  the 
harsh  realities  of  their  struggle  upward.  She  had 
worked  and  skimped  with  him  then.  Now  she 
was  like  a  lolling  passenger  in  a  jinrikisha,  who 
berates  the  shabby  coolie  because  he  stumbles 
where  the  roads  are  rough  and  sweats  where  they 
are  steep. 

55 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Julie  spoke  up  in  answer  to  her  mother's  word  of 
caution: 

"There's  one  thing  better  than  being  careful  what 
you  marry — and  that's  not  marrying  at  all!" 

The  rest  of  them  were  used  to  Julie's  views; 
but  Pop,  who  had  paid  little  heed  to  them,  almost 
collapsed  from  his  chair.  Julie  went  on: 

"Men  are  all  alike,  Mere.  They're  very  soft- 
spoken  when  they  come  to  make  love;  but  it's  only 
a  bluff  to  make  us  give  up  our  freedom.  Before  we 
know  it  they  drag  us  up  before  another  man,  a 
preacher,  and  make  us  swear  to  love,  honor,  and 
obey.  They  kill  the  love,  make  the  honor  impos- 
sible, and  the  obey  ridiculous.  Then  they  coop 
us  up  at  home  and  expect  us  to  let  them  run  the 
world  to  suit  themselves.  They've  been  running 
it  for  thousands  of  years — and  look  at  the  botch 
they've  made  of  it!  It's  time  for  us  to  take  the 
helm." 

"Go  to  it,  sis,"  said  Ethelwolf.  "I  care  not  who 
makes  the  laws  so  long  as  I  can  break  them." 

"Let  your  sister  alone!"  said  Mere.  "Go  on, 
Julie!" 

"I've  put  it  all  in  the  address  I  read  before  the 
Federation  last  week,"  said  Julie.  "It  was  reported 
at  length  in  one  of  the  papers.  I've  got  a  clipping 
in  my  handbag  here  somewhere." 

She  began  to  rummage  through  a  little  condensed 
chaos  of  handkerchiefs,  gloves,  powder-puff,  pow- 
dery dollar  bills,  powdery  coins,  loose  bits  of  paper, 

56 


POP 

samples,  thread,  pins,  buttons — everything — every- 
whichway. 

J.  Pennock  laughed.  "Pipe  what's  going  to  run 
the  world!  Better  get  a  few  pockets  first." 

"Don't  be  a  brute,  Pen!"  said  Mere. 

At  last  Julie  found  the  clipping  she  sought  and, 
shaking  the  powder  from  it,  handed  it  to  her  mother. 

"It's  on  the  strength  of  this  speech  that  I  was 
elected  delegate  to  the  international  convention  at 
San  Francisco,"  she  said. 

"You  were!"  Mere  gasped,  and  Beatrice  and 
Consuelo  exclaimed,  "Ripsnorting!" 

"Are  you  going?"  said  Mere  when  she  recovered 
from  her  awe. 

"Well,  it's  a  pretty  expensive  trip.  That's  why 
I  came  home — to  see  if —  Well,  we  can  take  that  up 
later.  Tell  me  how  you  like  the  speech." 

Mere  mumbled  the  report  aloud  to  the  delighted 
audience.  Pop  heard  little  of  it.  He  was  having  a 
chill.  It  was  very  like  plain  ague,  but  he  credited 
it  to  the  terror  of  Julie's  mission  home.  All  she 
wanted  him  to  do  was  to  send  her  on  a  little  jaunt 
to  San  Francisco!  The  tyrant,  as  usual,  was  ex- 
pected to  finance  the  rebellion. 

When  Mere  had  finished  reading  everybody  ap- 
plauded Julie  except  Pop.  Mere  overheard  his 
silence  and  rounded  on  him  across  the  aristocratic 
reading-glass  she  wielded. 

"Did  you  hear  that?" 

Pop  was  so  startled  that  he  answered,  "Uh-huh!" 

57 


IN   A   LITTLE    TOWN 

"Didn't  you  think  it  was  splendid?"  Mere  de- 
manded. 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Pop. 

"What  didn't  you  like  about  it?" 

"I  liked  it  all  first-rate.  Julie  is  a  smart  girl,  I  tell 
you." 

Mere  scented  his  evasion,  and  she  would  never 
tolerate  evasions.  She  repeated: 

"What  didn't  you  like  about  it?" 

"I  liked  all  I  could  understand." 

"Understand!"  snapped  Mere,  who  rarely  wasted 
her  culture  on  Pop.  "What  didn't  you  understand? 
Could  anything  be  clearer  than  this?  Listen!" 
She  read  in  an  oratorical  voice: 

"' Woman  has  been  for  ages  man's  mere  beast  of 
burden,  his  household  drudge.  Being  a  wife  has 
meant  being  a  slave — the  only  servant  without 
wages  or  holiday.  But  the  woman  of  to-day  at  last 
demands  that  the  shackles  be  stricken  off;  she  de- 
mands freedom  to  live  her  life  her  own  way — to 
express  her  selfhood  without  the  hampering  restric- 
tions imposed  on  her  by  the  barbaric  customs  inher- 
ited from  the  time  of  the  cave-man.' ' 

Mere  folded  up  the  clipping  and  glared  defiance 
at  the  cave-man  slumped  in  the  uneasy  chair. 

"What's  clearer  than  that?"  she  reiterated. 

Pop  was  at  bay.  He  was  like  a  desperate  rabbit. 
He  answered: 

"It's  clear  enough,  I  guess;  but  it's  more  than  I 
can  take  in.  Seems  to  me  the  women  folks  are 

58 


POP 

hollering  at  the  men  folks  to  give  'em  what  the  men 
folks  have  never  been  able  to  get  for  themselves." 

It  was  peevish.  Coming  from  Pop,  it  amounted  to 
an  outburst,  a  riot,  a  mutiny.  Such  a  tendency  was 
dangerous.  He  must  be  sharply  repressed  at  once — 
as  a  new  servant  must  be  taught  her  place.  Mere 
administered  the  necessary  rebuke,  aided  and 
abetted  by  the  daughters.  The  sons  did  not  rally 
to  their  father's  defense.  He  was  soon  reduced  to 
submission,  but  his  apology  was  further  irritation: 

"I'm  kind  of  rattled  like.  I  ain't  feeling  as  chip- 
per as  usual."  "Chipper"  was  bad  enough,  but 
"ain't"  was  unendurable!  They  rebuked  him  for 
that  and  he  put  in  another  irrelevant  plea:  "I  had  a 
kind  of  sick  spell  at  the  store.  I  had  to  lay  down." 

"Lie   down!"   Beatrice  corrected. 

"Lie  down,"  he  accepted.  "But  as  soon  as  I  laid 
down — " 

"Lay  down!" 

"Lay  down — I  had  chills  and  shootin'  pains;  and 
j " 

"It's  the  weather,"  Mere  interrupted,  impatiently. 
"I've  had  a  headache  all  day — such  a  headache  as 
never  was  known!  It  seemed  as  if  hammers  were 
beating  upon  my  very  brain.  It  was — " 

"I'm  not  feeling  at  all  well  myself,"  said  Con- 
suelo. 

There  was  almost  a  tournament  of  rivalry  in 
describing  sufferings. 

Pop  felt  as  if  he  had  wakened  a  sleeping  hospital. 

59 


IN    A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  sank  back  ashamed  of  his  own  outburst.  He 
rarely  spoke  of  the  few  ailments  he  could  afford. 
When  he  did  it  was  like  one  of  his  new  clerks  pulling 
a  bolt  of  goods  from  the  shelf  and  bringing  down  a 
silken  avalanche. 

The  clinic  was  interrupted  by  the  crisp  voice  of 
Nora:  "Dinner  is  served!" 

Everybody  rose  and  moved  to  the  door  with  quiet 
determination.  Pop  alone  failed  to  rise.  Mere 
glowered  at  him.  He  pleaded:  "I  don't  feel  very 
good.  I  guess  I'd  better  leave  my  stummick  rest." 

The  children  protested  politely,  but  he  refused  to 
be  moved  and  Mere  decided  to  humor  him. 

"Let  him  alone,  children.  It  won't  hurt  him  to 
skip  a  meal." 

They  said:  "Too  bad,  Pop!"— "You'll  be  all  right 
soon,"  and  went  out  and  forgot  him. 

Pop  heard  them  chattering  briskly.  It  was 
polite  talk.  If  slang  were  used  it  was  the  very 
newest.  He  gleaned  that  Pen  and  Gerald  were  op- 
posing Julie's  mission  to  San  Francisco  on  the  ground 
of  the  expense.  He  smiled  bitterly  to  hear  that  word 
from  them.  He  heard  Julie's  retort: 

"I  suppose  you  boys  want  the  money  yourselves! 
Well,  I've  got  first  havers  at  Pop.  I  saw  him  first!" 

At  about  this  point  the  conversation  lost  its 
coherence  in  Pop's  ears.  It  was  mingled  with  a 
curious  buzzing  and  a  dizziness  that  made  him  grip 
his  chair  lest  it  pitch  him  to  the  floor.  Chills,  in 
which  his  bones  were  a  mere  rattlebox,  alternated 

60 


POP 

with  little  rushes  of  prairie  fire  across  his  skin. 
Throes  of  pain  wrung  him. 

Also,  he  was  a  little  afraid — he  was  afraid  he 
might  not  be  able  to  get  to  the  store  in  the  morning. 
And  important  people  were  coming!  He  had  to 
make  the  first  payment  on  the  invoice  of  that  bank- 
rupt stock.  A  semiannual  premium  was  overdue 
on  his  life  insurance.  The  month  of  grace  had 
nearly  expired,  and  if  he  failed  to  pay  the  policy 
would  lapse — now  of  all  times!  He  had  kept  it  up 
all  these  years;  it  must  not  lapse  now,  for  he  was 
going  to  be  right  sick.  He  wanted  somebody  to 
nurse  him:  his  mother — or  that  long-lost  girl  he 
had  married  in  the  far  past. 

His  shoes  irked  him;  his  vest — what  they  wanted 
called  his  waistcoat — was  as  tight  as  a  corset.  He 
felt  that  he  would  be  safer  in  bed.  He'd  better  go 
up  to  his  own  room  and  stretch  out.  He  rose  with 
extraordinary  difficulty  and  negotiated  a  swimming 
floor  on  swaying  legs. 

The  laughter  from  the  dining-room  irritated  him. 
He  would  be  better  off  up-stairs,  where  he  could  not 
hear  it.  The  noise  in  his  ears  was  all  he  could  stand. 
He  attained  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  the  flight  of 
steps  seemed  as  long  and  as  misty  as  Jacob's  Ladder. 
And  he  was  no  angel! 

The  Grouts  lingered  at  dinner  and  over  their  black 
coffee  and  tobacco  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for  the 
reception  at  Mrs.  Alvin  Mitnick's,  at  which  Waupoos 
society  would  pass  itself  in  review.  The  later  you 

61 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

got  there  the  smarter  you  were,  and  most  people  put 
off  dressing  until  the  last  possible  minute  in  order  to 
keep  themselves  from  falling  asleep  before  it  was 
time  to  start. 

The  Grouts,  however,  were  eager  to  go  early  and 
get  it  over  with.  They  loved  to  trample  on  Waupoos 
traditions.  As  they  drifted  into  the  hall  they  found 
it  dark.  They  shook  their  heads  in  dismal  recog- 
nition of  a  familiar  phenomenon,  and  Ethelwolf 
groaned : 

"Pop  has  gone  up-stairs.  You  can  always  trace 
Pop.  Wherever  he  has  passed  by  the  lights  are  out." 

"He  has  figured  out  that  by  darkening  the  halls 
while  we  are  at  dinner  he  saves  nearly  a  cent  a  day," 
Mere  groaned. 

"If  Pop  were  dying  he'd  turn  out  a  light  some- 
where because  he  wouldn't  need  it."  And  Ethel- 
wolf  laughed. 

But  Mere  groaned  again:  "Can  you  wonder  that 
I  get  depressed?  Now,  children,  I  ask  you — 

"Poor  old  Mere!  It's  awful!"— "Ghastly !"— 
"Maddening!" 

They  gathered  round  her  lovingly,  echoing  her 
moans.  They  started  up  the  dark  stairway,  Con- 
suelo  first  and  turning  back  to  say  to  Beatrice: 

"Pop  can  cut  a  penny  into  more  slices  than — 
Then  she  screamed  and  started  back. 

Her  agitation  went  down  the  stairway  through 
the  climbing  Grouts  like  a  cold  breeze.  What  was 
it?  She  looked  close.  A  hand  was  just  visible  on 

62 


POP 

the  floor  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.     She  had  stepped 
on  it. 

in 

Pop  had  evidently  reached  the  upper  hall,  when 
the  ruling  passion  burning  even  through  his  fever 
had  led  him  to  grope  about  for  the  electric  switch. 
His  last  remaining  energy  had  been  expended  for  an 
economy  and  he  had  collapsed. 

They  switched  the  light  on  again;  they  were  al- 
ways switching  on  currents  that  he  switched  off — and 
paid  for.  They  found  him  lying  in  a  crumpled  sprawl 
that  was  awkward,  even  for  Pop. 

They  stared  at  him  in  bewilderment.  They 
would  have  said  he  was  drunk;  but  Pop  never  drank 
— nor  smoked — nor  played  cards.  Perhaps  he  was 
dead! 

This  thought  was  like  a  thunderbolt.  There  was 
a  great  thumping  in  the  breasts  of  the  Grouts. 

Suddenly  Mere  strode  forward,  dropped  to  her 
knees  and  put  her  hand  on  Pop's  heart.  It  was  not 
still — far  from  that.  She  placed  her  cold  palm  on 
his  forehead.  His  brow  was  clammy,  hot  and  cold 
and  wet. 

"He  has  a  high  fever!"  she  said. 

Then,  with  a  curious  emotion,  she  brushed  back  the 
scant  wet  hair;  closed  her  eyes  and  felt  in  her  bosom 
a  sudden  ache  like  the  turning  of  a  rusty  iron.  She 
felt  young  and  afraid — a  young  wife  who  finds  her 
man  wounded. 

63 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

She  looked  up  and  saw  standing  about  her  a 
number  of  tall  ladies  and  gentlemen — important- 
looking  strangers.  Then  she  remembered  that  they 
had  once  been  nobodies.  She  felt  ashamed  before 
them  and  she  said,  quickly: 

"He's  going  to  be  ill.  Telephone  for  the  doctor 
to  come  right  away.  And  you  girls  get  his  bed 
ready.  No,  you'd  better  put  him  in  my  room — 
it  gets  the  sunlight.  And  you  boys  fill  the  ice-cap — 
and  the  hot-water  bag  and — hurry!  Hurry!" 

The  specters  vanished.  She  was  alone  with  her 
lover.  She  was  drying  his  forehead  with  her  best 
lace  handkerchief  and  murmuring: 

"John  honey,  what's  the  matter!  Why,  honey — 
why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

Then  a  tall  gentleman  or  two  returned  and  one  of 
them  said: 

"Better  let  us  get  him  off  the  floor,  Mere." 

And  the  big  sons  of  the  frail  little  man  picked  him 
up  and  carried  him  into  the  room  and  pulled  off  his 
elastic  congress  gaiters,  and  his  coat  and  vest,  and  his 
detached  cuffs,  and  his  permanently  tied  tie,  and  his 
ridiculous  collar. 

Then  Mere  put  them  out,  and  when  the  doctor 
arrived  Pop  was  in  bed  in  his  best  nightshirt. 

The  doctor  made  his  way  up  through  the  little 
mob  of  terrified  children.  He  found  Mrs.  Grout 
vastly  agitated  and  much  ashamed  of  herself.  She 
did  not  wish  to  look  sentimental.  She  had  reached 
the  Indian-summer  modesty  of  old  married  couples. 

64 


POP 

The  doctor  went  through  the  usual  ritual  of  pulse- 
feeling  and  tongue-examining  and  question-asking, 
while  Pop  lay  inert,  with  a  little  thermometer  pro- 
truding from  his  mouth  like  a  most  inappropriate 
cigarette. 

The  doctor  was  uncertain  yet  whether  it  were  one 
of  the  big  fevers  or  pneumonia  or  just  a  bilious 
attack.  Blood-tests  would  show;  and  he  scraped 
the  lobe  of  the  ear  of  the  unresisting,  indifferent  old 
man,  and  took  a  drop  of  thin  pink  fluid  on  a  bit  of 
glass.  The  doctor  tried  to  reassure  the  panicky 
family,  but  his  voice  was  low  and  important. 

IV 

The  brilliant  receptions  and  displays  that  Mere 
and  the  children  had  planned  were  abandoned 
without  regret.  All  minor  regrets  were  lost  in  the 
one  big  regret  for  the  poor  old,  worn-out  man  up- 
stairs. 

There  was  a  dignity  about  Pop  now.  The  low- 
liest peasant  takes  on  majesty  when  he  is  battling 
for  his  life  and  his  home. 

There  was  dismay  in  all  the  hearts  now — dismay 
at  the  things  they  had  said  and  the  thoughts  and 
sneers;  dismay  at  the  future  without  this  shabby 
but  unfailing  provider. 

The  proofs  of  the  family  photograph  lay  scattered 
about  the  living-room.  Pop  was  not  there.  They 
had  smiled  about  it  before.  Now  it  looked  ominous! 

65 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

What  would  become  of  this  family  if  Pop  were  not 
there  ? 

The  house  was  filled  with  a  thick  sense  of  hush  like 
a  heavy  fog;  but  thoughts  seemed  to  be  all  the  louder 
in  the  silence — jumbled  thoughts  of  selfish  alarm; 
filial  terror;  remorse;  tenderness;  mutual  rebuke; 
dread  of  death,  of  the  future,  of  the  past. 

The  day  nurse  and  the  night  nurse  were  in  com- 
mand of  the  house.  The  only  events  were  the  arriv- 
als of  the  doctor,  his  long  stops,  his  whispered  con- 
ferences with  the  nurses,  and  the  unsatisfactory, 
evasive  answers  he  gave  as  the  family  ambushed  him 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  on  his  way  out. 

Meanwhile  they  could  not  help  Pop  in  his  long 
wrestle.  They  had  drained  his  strength  and  bruised 
his  heart  while  he  had  his  power,  and  now  that  he 
needed  their  help  and  their  youth  they  could  not 
lend  him  anything;  they  could  not  pay  a  single 
instalment  on  the  mortgages  they  had  incurred. 

They  could  only  stand  at  the  door  now  and  then 
and  look  in  at  him.  They  could  not  beat  off  one 
of  the  invisible  vultures  of  fever  and  pain  that 
hovered  over  him,  swooped,  and  tore  him. 

They  could  not  even  get  word  to  him — not  a 
message  of  love  or  of  repentance  or  of  hope.  His 
brain  was  in  a  turmoil  of  its  own.  His  white  lips 
were  muttering  delirious  nonsense;  his  soul  was 
fluttering  from  scene  to  scene  and  year  to  year,  like 
a  restless  dragon-fly.  He  was  young;  he  was  old; 
he  was  married;  he  was  a  bachelor;  he  was  at  home; 

66 


POP 

he  was  in  his  store;  he  was  pondering  campaigns 
of  business,  slicing  pennies  or  making  daring  pur- 
chases; he  was  retrenching;  he  was  advertising;  but 
he  was  afraid  always  that  he  might  sink  in  the  bog 
of  competition  with  rival  merchants,  with  creditors, 
debtors,  bankers,  with  his  wife,  his  children,  his  neigh- 
bors, his  ideals,  his  business  axioms — 

"Ain't  the  moon  pirty  to-night,  honey!  Gee! 
I'm  scared  of  that  preacher!  What  do  I  say  when 
he  says,  '  Do  you  take  this  woman  for  your' —  The 
pay-roll?  I  can't  meet  it  Saturday.  How  am  I 
going  to  meet  the  pay-roll  ?  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
sell  those  goods  any  cheaper,  but  we  got  to  get  rid 
of  'em.  My  premium!  My  premium!  I  haven't 
paid  my  premium!  What  '11  become  of  the  children? 
Three  cents  a  yard — it's  robbery!  Eight  cents  a 
yard — that's  givin'  it  away!  Don't  misunderstand 
me,  Sally.  It's  my  way  of  making  love.  I  can't 
say  pirty  things  like  some  folks  can,  but  I  can 
think  'em.  My  premium — the  pay-roll — so  many 
children!  Couldn't  they  do  without  that?  I  ain't 
a  millionaire,  you  know.  Every  time  I  begin  to  get 
ahead  a  little  seems  like  one  of  the  children  gets 
sick  or  in  trouble — the  pay-roll!  Three  cents  a  yard 
— the  new  invoice — I  can't  buy  myself  a  noo  soot. 
The  doctor's  bills!  I  ain't  complaining  of  'em;  but 
I've  got  to  pay  'em!  Let  me  stay  home — I'd  rather. 
I've  had  a  hard  day.  My  premium!  Don't  put 
false  notions  in  their  heads!  The  pay-roll!  Don't 
scold  me,  honey!  I  got  feelings,  too.  You  haven't 

6  67 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

said  a  word  of  love  to  me  in  years!  I'll  raise  the 
money  somehow.  I  know  I'm  close;  but  some- 
body's got  to  be — the  pay-roll — so  many  people  de- 
pending on  me.  So  many  mouths  to  feed — the 
children — all  the  clerks — the  delivery-wagon  drivers 
—the  advertising  bills — the  pay-roll — the  children! 
I  ain't  as  young  as  I  was — honey,  don't  scold  me!" 

The  ceaseless  babbling  grew  intolerable.  Then 
it  ceased;  and  the  stupor  that  succeeded  was  worse, 
for  it  meant  exhaustion.  The  doctor  grew  more 
grave.  He  ceased  to  talk  of  hope.  He  looked 
ashamed.  He  tried  to  throw  the  blame  from  him- 
self. 

And  one  dreadful  day  he  called  the  family  to- 
gether in  the  living-room.  Once  more  they  were  all 
there — all  those  expensively  shod  feet;  those  well- 
clothed,  well-fed  bodies.  In  the  chair  where  Pop 
had  slumped  the  doctor  sat  upright.  He  was  saying: 

"Of  course  there's  always  hope.  While  there's 
life  there's  always  hope.  The  fever  is  pretty  well 
gone,  but  so  is  the  patient.  The  crisis  left  him 
drained.  You  see  he  has  lived  this  American  busi- 
ness man's  life — no  exercise,  no  vacations,  no  change. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that  he  seems  to  have  given  up  the 
fight.  You  know  we  doctors  can  only  stand  guard 
outside.  The  patient  has  to  fight  it  out  inside  him- 
self. It's  a  very  serious  sign  when  the  sick  man 
loses  interest  in  the  battle.  Mr.  Grout  does  not 
rally.  His  powerful  mind  has  given  up." 

In  spite  of  themselves  there  was  a  general  lifting 

68 


POP 

of  the  brows  of  surprise  at  the  allusion  to  Pop's  poor 
little  footling  brain  as  a  powerful  mind.  Perhaps 
the  doctor  saw  it.  He  said : 

"For  it  was  a  powerful  mind!  Mr.  Grout  has 
carried  that  store  of  his  from  a  little  shop  to  a  big 
institution;  he  has  kept  it  afloat  in  a  dull  town 
through  hard  times.  He  has  kept  his  credit  good 
and  he  has  given  his  family  wonderful  advantages. 
Look  where  he  has  placed  you  all!  He  was  a  great 
man." 

When  the  doctor  had  gone  they  began  to  under- 
stand that  the  town  had  looked  upon  Pop  as  a  giant 
of  industry,  a  prodigal  of  vicarious  extravagance. 
They  began  to  feel  more  keenly  still  how  good  a  man 
he  was.  While  they  were  flourishing  like  orchids 
in  the  sun  and  air,  he  had  grubbed  in  the  earth, 
sinking  roots  everywhere  in  search  of  moisture  and 
of  sustenance.  Through  him,  things  that  were 
lowly  and  ugly  and  cheap  were  gathered  and  trans- 
formed and  sent  aloft  as  sap  to  make  flowers  of  and 
color  them  and  give  them  velvet  petals  and  exquisite 
perfume. 

They  gathered  silently  in  his  room  to  watch  him. 
He  was  white  and  still,  hardly  breathing,  already 
the  overdue  chattel  of  the  grave. 

They  talked  of  him  in  whispers,  for  he  did  not 
answer  when  they  praised  him.  He  did  not  move 
when  they  caressed  him.  He  was  very  far  away 
and  drifting  farther. 

They  spoke  of  how  much  they  missed  him,  of  how 

69 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

perfect  a  father  he  had  been,  competing  with  one 
another  in  regrets  and  in  praise.  Back  of  all  this 
belated  tribute  there  was  a  silent  dismay  they  did 
not  give  voice  to — the  keen,  immediately  personal 
reasons  for  regret. 

"What  will  become  of  us?"  they  werejthinking, 
each  in  his  or  her  own  terrified  soul. 

"I  can't  go  back  to  school!" 

"This  means  no  college  for  me!" 

"I'll  have  to  stay  in  this  awful  town  the  rest  of 
my  life!" 

"I  can't  go  to  San  Francisco!  The  greatest  honor 
of  my  life  is  taken  from  me  just  as  I  grasped  it." 

"I  had  a  commission  to  paint  the  portrait  of  an 
ambassador  at  Washington — it  would  have  been  the 
making  of  me!  It  meant  a  lot  of  money,  too.  I 
came  home  to  ask  Pop  to  stake  me  to  money  enough 
to  live  on  until  it  was  finished." 

"My  business  will  go  to  smash!  I'll  be  saddled 
with  debts  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  If  I  could  have 
hung  on  a  little  longer  I'd  have  reached  the  shore; 
but  the  bank  wouldn't  lend  me  a  cent.  Nobody 
would.  I  came  home  to  ask  Pop  to  raise  me  some 
cash.  I  counted  on  him.  He  never  failed  me  be- 
fore." 

"What  will  become  of  us  all?" 

There  was  a  stir  on  the  pillow.  The  still  head 
began  to  rock,  the  throat  to  swell,  the  lips  to  twitch. 

Mere  ran  to  the  bedside  and  knelt  by  it,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  forehead.  A  miracle  had  been 

70 


POP 

wrought  in  the  very  texture  of  his  brow.  He  was 
whispering  something.  She  put  her  ear  to  his  lips. 

"Yes,  honey.     What  is  it?     I'm  here." 

She  caught  the  faint  rustling  of  words.  It  was 
as  if  his  hovering  soul  had  been  eavesdropping  on 
their  thoughts.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  that  he  had 
learned  so  well  in  all  these  years  just  what  each  of 
them  would  be  thinking.  For  he  murmured: 

"I've  been  figuring  out — how  much  the — funeral 
will  cost — you  know  they're  awful  expensive — 
funerals  are — of  course  I  wouldn't  want  anything 
fancy — but — well — besides — and  I've  been  thinking 
the  children  have  got  to  have  so  many  things — I 
can't  afford  to — be  away  from  the  store  any  longer. 
I  ain't  got  time  to  die!  I've  had  vacation  enough! 
Where's  my  clothes  at?" 

They  held  him  back.  But  not  for  long.  He  was 
the  most  irritatingly  impatient  of  convalescents. 
In  due  course  of  time  the  family  was  redistributed 
about  the  face  of  the  earth.  Ethelwolf  was  at 
preparatory  school;  Beatrice  and  Consuelo  were 
acquiring  and  lending  luster  at  Wellesley  and  Vas- 
sar;  Gerald  was  painting  a  portrait  at  Washington; 
and  J.  Pennock  was  like  a  returned  Napoleon  in 
Wall  Street. 

Pop  was  at  his  desk  in  the  store.  All  his  employees 
had  gone  home.  He  was  fretfully  twiddling  a 
telegram  from  San  Francisco: 

Julie's  address  sublime  please  telegraph  two  hundred  more  love 

MERE. 

71 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Pop  was  remembering  the  words  of  the  address: 
"Woman  has  been  for  ages  man's  mere  beast  of 
burden.  .  .  .  Being  a  wife  has  meant  being  a 
slave." 

Pop  could  not  understand  it  yet.  But  he  told 
everybody  he  met  about  the  first  three  words  of  the 
telegram,  and  added: 

"I  got  the  smartest  children  that  ever  was  and 
they  owe  it  all  to  their  mother,  every  bit." 


BABY  TALK 


THE  wisest  thing  Prof.  Stuart  Litton  was  ever 
caught  at  was  the  thing  he  was  most  ashamed 
of.  He  had  begun  to  accumulate  knowledge  at  an 
age  when  most  boys  are  learning  to  fight  and  to 
explain  at  home  how  they  got  their  clothes  torn. 
He  wore  out  spectacles  almost  as  fast  as  his  brothers 
wore  out  copper-toed  boots;  but  he  did  not  begin 
to  acquire  wisdom  until  he  was  just  making  forty. 
Up  to  that  time,  if  the  serpent  is  the  standard, 
Professor  Litton  was  about  as  wise  as  an  angleworm. 
He  submerged  himself  in  books  for  nearly  forty 
years;  and  then — in  the  words  of  Leonard  Teed — 
then  he  "came  up  for  air."  This  man  Teed  was  the 
complete  opposite  of  Litton.  For  one  thing  he  was 
the  liveliest  young  student  in  the  university  where 
Litton  was  the  solemnest  old  professor.  Teed  had 
scientific  ambitions  and  hated  Greek  and  Latin, 
which  Litton  felt  almost  necessary  to  salvation. 
Teed  regarded  Litton  and  his  Latin  as  the  sole  ob- 
stacles to  his  success  in  college;  and,  though  Litton 
was  too  much  of  a  gentle  heart  to  hate  anybody,  if  he 

73 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

could  have  hated  anybody  it  would  have  been  Teed. 
A  girl  was  concerned  in  one  of  their  earliest  en- 
counters, though  Litton's  share  in  it  was  as  unroman- 
tic  as  possible. 

Teed,  it  seems,  had  violated  one  of  the  rules  at 
Webster  University.  He  had  chatted  with  Miss 
Fannie  Newman — a  pretty  student  in  the  Woman's 
College — after  nine  o'clock;  nay,  more,  he  had  sat 
on  a  campus  bench  bidding  her  good  night  for  half 
an  hour,  and,  with  that  brilliant  mathematical  mind 
of  his,  had  selected  the  bench  at  the  greatest  pos- 
sible distance  from  the  smallest  cluster  of  lamp- 
posts. 

On  this  account  he  was  haled  before  the  dis- 
ciplinary committee  of  the  faculty.  Litton  hap- 
pened to  be  on  that  committee.  Teed  made  the 
best  fight  he  could.  He  showed  himself  a  Greek — 
in  argument  at  least — and,  like  an  old  sophist,  he 
tried  to  prove,  first,  that  he  was  not  on  the  campus 
with  the  girl  and  never  had  spooned  with  her; 
second,  that  if  he  had  been  there  and  had  spooned 
with  her  it  was  too  dark  for  them  to  be  seen;  and 
third,  that  he  was  engaged  to  the  girl,  anyway,  and 
had  a  right  to  spoon  with  her. 

The  accusing  witness  was  a  janitor  whom  Teed 
had  played  various  jokes  on  and  had  neglected  to 
appease  with  tips.  Teed  submitted  him  to  a  fierce 
cross-examination;  forced  him  to  admit  that  he 
could  not  see  the  loving  couple  and  had  identified 
them  solely  by  their  voices.  Teed  demanded  the 

74 


BABY   TALK 

exact  words  overheard;  and,  as  often  happens  to 
the  too-ardent  cross-examiner,  he  got  what  he  asked 
for  and  wished  he  had  not.  The  janitor,  blushing 
at  what  he  remembered,  pleaded: 

"You  don't  vant  I  should  say  it  exectly  vat  I 
heered?" 

"Exactly!"  Teed  answered  in  his  iciest  tone. 

"Veil,"  the  janitor  mumbled,  "it  vas  such  a  foolish 
talk  as — but — veil,  ven  I  come  by  I  hear  voman's 
voice  says,  'Me  loafs  oo  besser  as  oo  loafs  me!"! 

Teed  flushed  and  the  faculty  sat  forward. 

"Den  I  hear  man's  voice  says,'Oozie-voozie,mezie- 
vezie — '  Must  I  got  to  tell  it  all?" 

"Go  on!"  said  Teed,  grimly;  and  the  old  German 
mopped  his  brow  with  anguish  and  snorted  with  rage: 

Mezie-vezie  loafs  oozie-voozie  bestest!"3 

The  purple-faced  members  of  the  faculty  were 
hanging  on  to  their  own  safety-valves  to  keep  from 
exploding — all  save  Professor  Litton,  who  felt  that 
his  hearing  must  be  defective.  Teed,  fighting  in  the 
last  ditch,  said: 

"  But  such  language  does  not  prove  the  identity  of 
the — er — participants.  You  said  you  knew  posi- 
tively." 

The  janitor,  writhing  with  disgust  and  indigna- 
tion, went  on: 

"Ven  I  hear  such  nonsunse  I  stop  and  listen  if  it  is 
two  people  escapet  from  de  loonatic-houze.  And 
den  young  voman  says,  'It  doesn't  loaf  its  Fannie- 
vannie  one  teeny-veeny  mite!'  And  young  man 

75 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

says,  'So  sure  my  name  is  Lennie  Teedie-veedie, 
little  Fannie  Newman  iss  de  onliest  gerl  I  ever 
loafed!'" 

The  cross-examiner  crumpled  up  in  a  chair,  while 
the  members  of  the  faculty  behaved  like  children 
bursting  with  giggles  in  church — all  save  Litton, 
who  had  listened  with  increasing  amazement  and 
now  leaned  forward  to  demand  of  the  janitor: 

"Mr.  Kraus,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  two  of  our 
students  actually  disgraced  this  institution  with  con- 
versation that  would  be  appropriate  only  to  a 
nursery?" 

Mr.  Kraus  thundered:  "De  talk  of  dose  stoodents 
vould  disgrace  de  nursery!  It  vas  so  sickenink  I 
can't  forget  ut.  I  try  to,  but  I  keep  rememberink 
Oozie-voozie !  Mezie-vezie !" 

Mr.  Kraus  was  excused  in  a  state  of  hydrophobic 
rage  and  Teed  withdrew  in  all  meekness. 

Litton  had  fallen  into  a  stupor  of  despair  at  the 
futility  of  learning.  He  remained  in  a  state  of  coma 
while  the  rest  of  the  committee  laughed  over  the 
familiar  idiocies  and  debated  a  verdict.  Two  of  the 
professors,  touched  by  some  reminiscence  of  romance, 
voted  to  ignore  the  incident  as  a  trivial  common- 
place of  youth.  Two  others,  though  full  of  sym- 
pathy for  Teed — Miss  Fannie  was  very  pretty — 
voted  for  his  suspension  as  a  necessary  example,  lest 
the  campus  be  overrun  by  duets  in  lovers'  Latin. 
The  result  was  a  tie  and  Litton  was  roused  from  his 
trance  to  cast  the  deciding  vote. 

76 


BABY   TALK 

Now  Professor  Litton  had  read  a  vast  amount 
about  love.  The  classics  are  full  of  its  every  imagi- 
nable version  or  perversion;  but  Litton  had  seen  it 
expressed  only  in  the  polished  phrases  of  Anacreon, 
Bion,  Propertius,  and  the  others.  He  had  not 
guessed  that,  however  these  men  polished  their 
verses,  they  doubtless  addressed  their  sweethearts 
with  all  the  imbecility  of  sincerity. 

Litton's  own  experience  gave  him  little  help.  In 
his  late  youth  he  had  thought  himself  in  love  twice 
and  had  expressed  his  fiery  emotions  in  a  Latin 
epistle,  an  elegy,  and  a  number  of  very  correct 
Alcaics.  They  pleased  his  teacher,  but  frightened  the 
spectacles  off  one  bookish  young  woman,  and  drove 
the  other  to  the  arms  of  a  prescription  clerk,  who 
knew  no  Latin  except  what  was  on  his  drug  bottles. 

Litton  had  thenceforward  been  wedded  to  knowl- 
edge. He  had  read  nearly  everything  ancient,  but  he 
must  have  forgotten  the  sentence  of  Publilius  Syrus: 
"Even  a  god  could  hardly  love  and  be  wise."  He 
felt  no  mercy  in  his  soft  heart  for  the  soft-headed 
Teed.  He  was  a  worshiper  of  language  for  its  own 
sake  and  cast  a  vote  accordingly. 

"I  do  not  question  the  propriety  of  the  conduct  of 
these  young  people,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Teed  claims  to 
be  engaged  to  the  estimable  young  woman.'* 

"Ah!"  said  Professor  Mackail,  delightedly. 

Teed  was  the  brightest  pupil  in  his  laboratory  and 
he  had  voted  for  acquittal.  His  joy  vanished  as 
Professor  Litton  went  on: 

77 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"But" — he  spoke  the  word  with  emphasis — "but 
waiving  all  questions  of  propriety,  I  do  feel  that  we 
should  administer  a  stinging  rebuke  to  the  use  of 
such  appallingly  infantile  language  by  one  of  our 
students.  Surely  a  man's  culture  should  show  it- 
self, above  all,  in  the  addresses  he  pays  to  the  young 
lady  of  his  choice.  What  vanity  to  build  and  con- 
duct a  great  institution  of  learning,  such  as  this 
aims  to  be,  and  then  permit  one  of  its  pupils  to 
express  his  regard  for  a  student  from  the  Annex  in 
such  language  as  even  Mr.  Kraus  was  reluctant  to 
quote:  ' Mezie-wezie  loves  oozie-woozie  bestest!' — 
if  I  remember  rightly.  Really,  gentlemen,  if  this  is 
permitted  we  might  as  well  change  the  university  to 
a  kindergarten.  For  his  own  sake  I  vote  that 
Mr.  Teed  be  given  six  months  of  meditation  at 
home;  and  I  trust  that  the  faculty  of  the  Woman's 
College  will  have  a  similar  regard  for  its  ideals  and 
the  welfare  of  the  misguided  young  woman." 

Professor  Mackail  protested  furiously,  but  his 
advocacy  only  embittered  Litton — for  Mackail  was 
the  leader  of  the  faction  that  had  tried  for  years  to 
place  Webster  University  in  line  with  others  by 
removing  Latin  and  Greek  from  the  position  of  re- 
quired studies. 

Mackail  and  his  crew  pretended  that  French  and 
German,  or  science,  were  appropriate  substitutes 
for  the  classic  languages  in  the  case  of  those  whose 
tastes  were  not  scholastic;  but  to  Litton  it  was  a 
religion  that  no  man  should  be  allowed  to  spend  four 

78 


BABY   TALK 

years  in  college  without  at  least  rubbing  up  against 
Homer,  ^Eschylos,  Vergil,  and  Horace. 

As  Litton  put  it:  "No  man  has  a  right  to  an 
Alma  Mater  who  doesn't  know  what  the  words  mean; 
and  nobody  has  a  right  to  graduate  without  knowing 
at  least  enough  Latin  to  read  his  own  diploma." 

This  old  war  had  been  fought  with  all  the  bitter- 
ness and  professional  jealousies  of  scholarship,  which 
rival  those  of  religion  and  exceed  those  of  the  stage. 
For  yet  a  while  Litton  and  his  followers  had  van- 
quished opposition.  He  little  dreamed  what  he  was 
preparing  for  himself  in  punishing  Teed. 

Teed  accepted  his  banishment  with  poor  grace,  but 
a  magnificent  determination  to  come  back  and  grad- 
uate. The  effect  of  his  punishment  was  shown  when, 
after  six  months  of  rustic  meditation,  he  set  out  for 
the  university,  leaving  behind  him  his  Fannie,  who 
had  been  too  timid  to  return  to  the  scene  of  her  dis- 
comfiture. Teed's  good-by  words  ran  something 
like  this: 

"Bess  its  ickle  heartums!  Don't  se  care!  Soonie 
as  Teedle-weedle  gets  graduated  he'll  get  fine  job 
and  marry  his  Fansy-pansy  very  first  sing."  Then 
he  kissed  her  "Goo'byjums" — and  went  back  with 
the  face  of  a  Regulus  returning  to  be  tortured  by  the 
enemy. 

II 

Teed  had  a  splendid  mind  for  everything  material 
and  modern,  but  he  could  not  and  would  not  master 

79 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

the  languages  he  called  dead.  His  mistranslations 
of  the  classics  were  themselves  classics.  They  sent 
the  other  students  into  uproars;  but  Litton  saw 
nothing  funny  in  them.  When  he  received  Teed's 
examination  papers  he  marked  them  with  a  pitiless 
exactitude. 

Teed  reached  the  end  of  his  junior  year  with  a 
heap  of  conditions  in  the  classics.  Litton  insisted 
that  he  should  not  be  allowed  to  graduate  until  he 
cleaned  them  up.  This  meant  that  Teed  must  tutor 
all  through  his  last  vacation  or  carry  double  work 
throughout  his  senior  year — when  he  expected  to 
play  some  patriotic  or  Alma-Matriotic  football. 

Teed  had  no  intention  of  enduring  either  of  these 
inconveniences;  he  trusted  to  fate  to  inspire  him 
somehow  with  some  scheme  for  attaining  his  diploma 
without  delay,  His  future  job  depended  on  his 
diploma — and  his  girl  depended  on  his  job. 

He  did  not  intend  to  be  kept  from  either  by  any 
ancient  authors.  He  had  not  the  faintest  idea  how 
he  was  going  to  bridge  that  chasm — but,  as  he  wrote 
his  Fansy-pansy,  "Love  will  find  the  way." 

While  Teed  was  taking  thought  for  the  beginning 
of  his  life-work  Litton  was  completing  his — or  at  least 
he  thought  he  was.  With  the  splendid  devotion  of 
the  scholar  he  had  selected  for  his  contribution  to 
human  welfare  the  best  possible  edition  of  the  work 
least  likely  to  be  read  by  anybody.  A  firm  of  pub- 
lishers had  kindly  consented  to  print  it — at  Litton's 
expense. 

80 


BABY   TALK 

Litton  would  donate  a  copy  to  his  own  university; 
two  or  three  college  libraries  would  purchase  copies 
out  of  respect  to  the  learned  professor;  and  Litton 
would  give  away  a  few  more.  The  rest  would  stand 
in  an  undisturbed  stack  of  increasing  dust,  there  to 
remain  unread  as  long  perhaps  as  the  myriads  of 
Babylonian  classics  that  Assurbani-pal  had  copied 
in  brick  volumes  for  his  great  library  at  Nineveh. 

Professor  Litton  had  chosen  for  his  life-work  a  re- 
cension of  the  ponderous  epic  in  forty-eight  books 
that  old  Nonnus  wrote  in  Egypt,  the  labyrinthine 
Dionysiaka  describing  the  voyage  of  Bacchus  to 
India  and  back. 

A  pretty  theme  for  an  old  water-drinker  who  had 
never  tasted  wine!  But  Litton  toiled  over  the 
Greek  text,  added  copious  notes  as  to  minute 
variants,  appallingly  learned  prolegomena,  an  index, 
and  finally  an  English  version  in  prose.  He  had 
begun  to  translate  it  into  hexameters,  but  he  feared 
that  he  would  never  live  to  finish  it.  It  was  hard 
enough  for  a  man  like  Litton  to  express  at  all  the 
florid  spirit  of  an  author  whose  theme  was  "the 
voluptuous  phalanxes"  of  Bacchus'  army  —  "the 
heroic  race  of  such  unusual  warriors;  the  shaggy 
satyrs;  the  breed  of  centaurs;  the  tribes  of  Sileni, 
whose  legs  bristle  with  hair;  and  the  battalions  of 
Bassarids." 

He  had  kept  at  it  all  these  years,  however,  and  it 
was  ready  now  for  the  eyes  of  a  world  that  would 
never  see  it.  He  had  watched  it  through  the  com- 

81 


positors'  hands,  keeping  a  tireless  eye  on  the  in- 
finite nuisance  of  Greek  accents.  He  had  read  the 
galley  proofs,  the  page  proofs,  and  now  at  last  the 
black-bordered  foundry  proofs.  He  scorned  to  write 
the  bastard  "O.  K."  of  approval  and  wrote,  instead, 
a  stately  "Imprimatur."  He  placed  the  proofs  in 
their  envelope  and  sealed  it  with  lips  that  trembled 
like  a  priest's  when  giving  an  illuminated  Gospel  a 
ritual  kiss. 

The  hour  was  late  when  Professor  Litton  finished. 
He  stamped  the  brown-paper  envelope  and  went 
down  the  steps  of  the  boarding-house  that  had  been 
for  years  his  nearest  approach  to  a  home.  He  left 
the  precious  envelope  on  the  hall-tree,  whence  it 
would  be  taken  to  the  post-office  for  the  first  mail. 

Feeling  the  need  of  a  breath  of  air,  he  stepped  out 
on  the  porch.  It  was  a  spring  midnight  and  the 
college  roofs  were  wonderful  under  the  quivering 
moon — or  tremu'lo  sub  lumine,  as  he  remembered  it. 
And  he  remembered  how  Quintus  Smyrnaeus  had 
said  that  the  Amazon  queen  walked  among  her  out- 
shone handmaidens,  "as  when,  on  the  wide  heavens, 
among  the  stars,  the  divine  Selene  moves  pre- 
eminent among  them  all." 

He  thought  of  everything  in  terms  of  the  past; 
yet,  when  he  heard,  mingled  with  the  vague  murmur 
of  the  night,  a  distant  song  of  befuddled  collegians, 
among  whose  voices  Teed's  soared  pre-eminent 
above  the  key,  he  was  not  pleasantly  reminded  of  the 
tipsy  army  of  Dionysus.  He  was  revolted  and,  re- 

82 


BABY   TALK 

turning  to  his  solitude,  closed  an  indignant  door  on 
the  disgrace. 

Poor  old  Litton!  His  learning  had  so  frail  a  con- 
nection with  the  life  about  him!  Steeped  in  the 
classics  and  acquainted  with  the  minutest  details 
of  their  texts,  he  never  caught  their  spirit;  never 
seemed  to  realize  that  they  are  classics  because  their 
authors  were  so  close  to  life  and  imbued  them 
with  such  vitality  that  time  has  not  yet  rendered 
them  obsolete. 

He  had  hardly  suspected  the  mischief  that  is  in 
them.  A  more  innocent  man  could  hardly  be  im- 
agined or  one  more  versed  in  the  lore  of  evil.  Per- 
sons who  believe  that  what  is  called  immoral  litera- 
ture has  a  debasing  effect  must  overlook  such  men  as 
Litton.  He  dwelt  among  those  Greek  and  Roman 
authors  who  excelled  in  exploiting  the  basest  emo- 
tions and  made  poems  out  of  putridity. 

He  read  in  the  original  those  terrifying  pages  that 
nobody  has  ever  dared  to  put  into  English  without 
paraphrase — the  polished  infamies  of  Martial;  the 
exquisite  atrocities  of  Theocritus  and  Catullus. 
Yet  these  books  left  him  as  unsullied  as  water  leaves 
a  duck's  back.  They  infected  him  no  more  than  a 
medical  work  gives  the  doctor  that  studies  it  the 
diseases  it  describes.  The  appallingly  learned  Pro- 
fessor Litton  was  a  babe  in  arms  compared  with 
many  of  his  pupils,  who  read  little — or  with  the 
janitor,  who  read  nothing  at  all. 

And  now,  arrived  at  a  scant  forty  and  looking  a 

7  83 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

neglected  fifty,  short-sighted,  stoop-shouldered  and 
absent-minded  to  a  proverb,  he  cast  a  last  fond  look 
at  the  parcel  containing  his  translation  of  the 
Bacchic  epic  and  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  bachelor 
bedroom,  took  off  his  shabby  garments,  and  stretched 
himself  out  in  the  illiterate  sleep  of  a  tired  farm-hand. 

Just  one  dream  he  had — a  nightmare  in  which  he 
read  a  printed  copy  of  his  work,  and  a  wrongly 
accented  enclitic  stuck  out  from  one  of  the  pages 
like  a  sore  thumb.  He  woke  in  a  cold  sweat,  ran 
to  his  duplicate  proofs,  found  that  his  text  was 
correct — and  went  back  to  bed  contented. 

Of  such  things  his  terrors  and  his  joys  had  con- 
sisted all  his  years. 

in 

The  next  morning  he  felt  like  a  laborer  whose 
factory  has  closed.  Every  day  would  be  Sunday 
hereafter  until  he  got  another  job.  In  this  unwonted 
sloth  he  dawdled  over  his  porridge,  his  weak  tea,  and 
his  morning  paper. 

Head-lines  caught  his  eyes  shouting  the  familiar 
name  of  Joel  Brown — familiar  to  the  world  at  large 
because  of  the  man's  tremendous  success  and  re- 
lentless severity  in  business.  Brown  fell  in  love 
with  one  of  those  shy,  sly  young  women  who  make  a 
business  of  millionaires.  He  fell  out  with  a  thud 
and  his  Flossie  entered  a  suit  for  breach  of  promise, 
submitting  selected  letters  of  Brown's  as  proofs  of 
his  guile  and  of  her  weak,  womanly  trust. 

84 


BABY   TALK 

The  newspapers  pounced  on  them  with  joy,  as 
cats  pounce  and  purr  on  catnip.  The  whole  country 
studied  Brown's  letters  with  the  rapture  of  eaves- 
dropping. Such  letters!  Such  oozing  molasses  of 
sentiment!  Such  elephantine  coquetry!  Joel  weighed 
two  hundred  and  eighteen  pounds  and  called  himself 
Little  Brownie  and  Pet  Chickie! 

This  was  the  literature  that  the  bewildered  Litton 
found  in  the  first  paper  he  had  read  carefully  since 
he  came  up  for  air.  One  of  the  letters  ran  something 
like  this: 

Angel  of  the  skies!  My  own  Flossie-dovelet!  Your  Little 
Brownie  has  not  seenest  thee  for  a  whole  half  a  day,  and  he  is 
pining,  starving,  famishing,  perishing  for  a  word  from  your 
blushing  liplets.  Oh,  my  Peaches  and  Cream!  Oh,  my  Sugar 
Plum!  How  can  your  Pet  Chickie  live  the  eternity  until  he 
claspeths  thee  again  this  evening?  When  can  your  Brownie- 
wownie  call  you  all  his  ownest  only  one?  Ten  billion  kisses  I 
send  you  from 

Your  own,  owner,  ownest 

PET  CHICKIE-BROWNIE. 


The  X's,  Flossie  explained,  indicated  kisses — a 
dozen  to  an  X. 

The  jury  laughed  Little  Brownie  out  of  court  after 
pinning  a  twenty-five-thousand-dollar  verdict  to  his 
coat-tail.  The  nation  elected  him  the  Pantaloon  of  the 
hour  and  pounded  him  with  bladders  and  slap-sticks. 

Professor  Litton  had  heard  nothing  of  the  pre- 
liminary fanfare  of  the  suit.  As  he  read  of  it  now 
he  was  too  much  puzzled  to  be  amused.  He  read 

85 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

with  the  same  incredulity  he  had  felt  when  he 
heard  the  janitor  quote  Teed's  remarks  to  his 
fiancee.  Litton  called  his  landlady's  attention  to  the 
remarkable  case.  She  had  been  reading  it,  with 
greedy  glee,  every  morning.  She  had  had  such  let- 
ters herself  in  her  better  days.  She  felt  sorry  for 
poor  Mr.  Brown  and  sorrier  for  the  poor  professor 
when  he  said: 

"Poor  Mr.  Brown  must  have  gone  quite  insane. 
Nobody  could  have  built  up  such  wealth  without 
brains;  yet  nobody  with  brains  could  have  written 
such  letters.  Ergo,  he  has  lost  his  brains." 

"You'll  be  late  to  prayers,"  was  all  the  landlady 
said.  She  treated  Litton  as  if  he  were  a  half-witted 
son.  And  he  obeyed  her,  forsook  his  unfinished  tea 
and  hurried  away  to  the  chapel.  Thence  he  went  to 
his  class-room,  where  Teed  achieved  some  further 
miracles  of  mistranslation.  Litton  thought  how 
curious  it  was  that  this  young  man,  of  whom  his 
scientific  professor  spoke  so  highly,  should  have 
fallen  into  the  same  delirium  of  amorous  idiocy  as 
the  famous  plutocrat,  Joel  Brown. 

When  the  class  was  dismissed  he  sank  back  in  his 
chair  by  the  class-room  window.  It  was  wide  ajar 
to-day  for  the  first  time  since  winter.  April,  like 
an  early-morning  housemaid,  was  throwing  open  all 
the  windows  of  the  world.  Litton  felt  a  delicious 
lassitude;  he  was  bewildered  with  leisure.  A  kind 
of  sweet  loneliness  fell  on  him.  He  had  made  no 
provision  for  times  like  these. 

86 


BABY   TALK 

He  sat  back  and  twiddled  his  thumbs.  His  eyes 
roved  lazily  about  the  campus.  The  wind  that 
fluttered  the  sparse  forelock  on  his  overweening  fore- 
head hummed  in  his  ears.  It  had  a  distance  in  it. 
It  brought  soft  cadences  of  faint  voices  from  the 
athletic  field.  They  seemed  to  come  from  no  place 
nearer  than  the  Athenian  Academe. 

Along  the  paths  of  the  campus  a  few  women  were 
sauntering,  for  the  students  and  teachers  in  the 
Women's  Annex  had  the  privilege  of  the  libraries,  the 
laboratories,  and  lecture-rooms. 

Across  Litton's  field  of  view  passed  a  figure  that 
caught  his  eye.  Absently  he  followed  it  as  it  en- 
larged with  approach.  He  realized  that  it  was 
Prof.  Martha  Binley,  Ph.D.,  who  taught  Greek  over 
there  in  the  Annex. 

"How  well  she  is  looking!"  he  mused. 

The  very  thought  startled  him,  as  if  some  one  had 
spoken  unexpectedly.  He  wondered  that  he  had 
noticed  her  appearance.  After  the  window-sill 
blotted  her  from  view  he  still  wondered,  dallying 
comfortably  with  the  reverie. 

IV 

There  was  a  knock  at  his  door  and  in  response  to 
his  call  the  door  opened — and  she  stood  there. 
"May  I  come  in?"  she  said. 
"Certainly." 

Before  he  knew  it  some  impulse  of  gallantry  hoisted 

87 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

him  to  his  feet.  He  lifted  a  bundle  of  archeological 
reviews  from  a  chair  close  to  his  desk  and  waited 
until  she  sat  down.  The  chair  was  nearer  his  than 
he  realized,  and  as  Professor  Binley  dropped  into  it 
she  was  so  close  that  Professor  Litton  pushed  his 
spectacles  up  to  his  forehead. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  his  eyes  except 
through  glasses  darkly.  She  noted  their  color  in- 
stantly, woman-like.  They  were  not  dull,  either,  as 
she  had  imagined.  A  cloying  fragrance  saluted  his 
nostrils. 

"What  are  the  flowers  you  are  wearing,  may  I 
ask?"  he  said.  He  hardly  knew  a  harebell  from  a 
peony. 

"These  are  hyacinths,"  she  said.  "One  of  the 
girls  gave  them  to  me.  I  just  pinned  them  on." 

"Ah,  hyacinths!"  he  murmured.  "Ah  yes;  I've 
read  so  much  about  them.  So  these  are  hyacinths! 
Such  a  pretty  story  the  Greeks  had.  You  remem- 
ber it,  no  doubt?" 

She  said  she  did;  but,  schoolmaster  that  he  was, 
he  went  right  on: 

"Apollo  loved  young  Hyacinthus — or  Huakinthos, 
as  the  Greeks  called  it — and  was  teaching  him  to 
throw  the  discus,  when  a  jealous  breeze  blew  the 
discus  aside.  It  struck  the  boy  in  the  forehead. 
He  fell  dead,  and  from  his  blood  this  flower  sprang. 
The  petals,  they  said,  were  marked  with  the  letters 
Ai,  Ai! — Alas!  Alas!  And  the  poet  Moschus,  you 
remember,  in  his  'Lament  for  Bion,'  says: 

88 


BABY   TALK 

"Nun   huakinthe   lalei   ta   sa   grammata   kai   pleon   aiai! 

"Or,  as  I  once  Englished  it — let  me  see,  I  put  it 
into  hexameters — it  was  a  long  while  ago.  Ah,  I 
have  it!" 

And  with  the  orotund  notes  a  poet  assumes  when 
reciting  his  own  words,  he  intoned: 

"Now,  little  hyacinth,  babble  thy  syllables — louder  yet — Aiai! 
Whimper  with  all  of  thy  petals;    a  beautiful  singer  has  per- 
ished." 

Professor  Binley  stared  at  him  in  amazement  and 
cried:  "Charming!  Beautiful!  Your  own  transla- 
tion, you  say?" 

And  he,  somewhat  shaken  by  her  enthusiasm, 
waved  it  aside. 

"A  little  exercise  of  my  Freshman  year.  But  to 
get  back  to  our — hyacinths:  Theocritus,  you  re- 
member, speaks  of  the  'lettered  hyacinth/  May  I 
see  whether  we  can  find  the  words  there?" 

He  bent  forward  to  take  and  she  bent  forward  to 
give  the  flowers.  Her  hair  brushed  his  forehead 
with  a  peculiar  influence;  and  when  their  fingers 
touched  he  noted  how  soft  and  warm  her  hand  was. 
He  flushed  strangely.  She  was  flushed  a  little,  too, 
possibly  from  embarrassment — possibly  from  the 
warmth  of  the  day,  with  its  insinuation  of  spring. 

He  pulled  his  spectacles  over  his  eyes  in  a  com- 
fortable discomfiture  and  peered  at  the  flowers 
closely.  And  she  peered,  too,  breathing  foolishly 
fast.  When  he  could  not  find  the  living  letters  he 

89 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

shook  his  head  and  felt  again  the  soft  touch  of  her 
hair. 

"I  can't  find  the  words — can  you?  Your  eyes 
are  brighter  than  mine." 

She  bent  closer  and  both  their  hands  held  the 
flowers.  He  looked  down  into  her  hair.  It  struck 
him  that  it  was  a  remarkably  beautiful  idea — a 
woman's  hair — especially  hers,  streaked  as  it  was 
with  white — silken  silver.  When  she  shook  her 
head  a  snowy  thread  tickled  his  nose  amusingly. 

"I  can't  find  anything  like  it,"  she  confessed. 

Then  he  said:  "I've  just  remembered.  Theoc- 
ritus calls  the  hyacinth  black — melan — and  so  does 
Vergil.  These  cannot  be  hyacinths  at  all." 

He  was  bitterly  disappointed.  It  would  have 
been  delightful  to  meet  the  flower  in  the  flesh  that 
he  knew  so  well  in  literature.  Doctor  Martha 
answered  with  quiet  strength: 

''These  are  hyacinths." 

"But  the  Greeks— " 

"Didn't  know  everything,"  she  said;  "or  perhaps 
they  referred  to  another  flower.  But  then  we  have 
dark-purple  hyacinths." 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "Sappho  speaks  of  the  hyacinth 
as  purple — porphuron." 

Thus  the  modern  world  was  reconciled  with  the 
Greek  and  he  felt  easier;  but  there  was  a  gentle 
forcefulness  about  her  that  surprised  him.  He 
wondered  whether  she  would  not  be  interested  in 
hearing  about  his  edition  of  Nonnus.  He  assumed 

90 


BABY   TALK 

that  she  would  be,  being  evidently  intelligent.  So 
he  told  her.  He  told  her  and  told  her,  and  she 
listened  with  almost  devout  interest.  He  was  still 
telling  her  when  the  students  in  other  classes  stam- 
peded to  lunch  with  a  many-hoofed  clatter.  When 
they  straggled  back  from  lunch  he  was  still  telling 
her 

It  was  not  until  he  was  interrupted  by  an  after- 
noon class  of  his  own  that  he  realized  how  long  he 
had  talked.  He  apologized  to  Professor  Binley;  but 
she  said  she  was  honored  beyond  words.  She  had 
come  to  ask  him  a  technical  question  in  prosody,  as 
from  one  professor  to  another;  but  she  had  forgotten 
it  altogether — at  least  she  put  it  off  to  another  visit. 
She  hastened  away  in  a  flutter,  feeling  slightly  as 
if  she  had  been  to  a  tryst. 

Litton  went  without  his  lunch  that  day,  but  he 
was  browsing  on  memories  of  his  visitor.  He  had 
not  talked  so  long  to  a  woman  since  he  could  re- 
member. This  was  the  only  woman  who  had  let 
him  talk  uninterruptedly  about  himself — a  very  su- 
perior woman,  everybody  said. 

When  he  went  to  his  room  that  night  he  was  still 
thinking  of  hyacinths  and  of  her  who  had  brought 
them  to  his  eyes. 

He  knocked  from  his  desk  a  book.  It  fell  open  at 
a  page.  As  he  picked  it  up  he  noted  that  it  was  a 
copy  of  the  anonymous  old  spring  rhapsody,  the 
Pervigilium  Veneris^  with  its  ceaselessly  reiterated 
refrain,  "To-morrow  he  shall  love  who  never  loved 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

before."  As  he  fell  asleep  it  was  running  through 
his  head  like  a  popular  tune:  Cras  amet  qui  nunquam 
amavit;  quique  amavit  eras  amet. 

It  struck  him  as  an  omen;  but  it  did  not  terrify 
him. 


Professor  Martha  called  again  to  ask  her  question 
in  verse  technic.  The  answer  led  to  further  talk 
and  the  consultation  of  books.  She  was  a  trifle  near- 
sighted and  too  proud  to  wear  glasses,  so  she  had  to 
bend  close  to  the  page;  and  her  hair  tickled  his  nose 
again  foolishly. 

Conference  bred  conference,  and  one  day  she 
asked  him  whether  she  would  dare  ask  him  to  call. 
He  rewarded  her  bravery  by  calling.  She  lived  in  a 
dormitory,  with  a  parlor  for  the  reception  of  guests. 
Male  students  were  allowed  to  call  on  only  two  even- 
ings a  week.  Litton  did  not  call  on  those  evenings; 
yet  the  fact  that  he  called  at  all  swept  through  the 
town  like  a  silent  thunderbolt.  The  students  were 
mysteriously  apprised  of  the  fact  that  old  Professor 
Litton  and  Prof.  Martha  Binley  were  sitting  up  and 
taking  notice.  To  the  youngsters  it  looked  like  a 
flirtation  in  an  old  folks'  home. 

Litton's  very  digestion  was  affected;  his  brain 
was  in  a  whirl.  He  was  the  prey  of  the  most  childish 
alarms;  gusts  of  petulant  emotion  swept  through  him 
if  Martha  were  late  when  he  called;  he  was  mad 
with  jealousy  if  she  mentioned  another  professor. 

92 


BABY   TALK 

She  was  growing  more  careful  of  her  appearance. 
A  new  youth  had  come  to  her.  She  took  fifteen 
years  off  her  looks  by  simply  fluffing  her  hair  out  of 
its  professorial  constriction.  Professor  Mackail  no- 
ticed it  and  mentioned  to  Professor  Litton  that 
Professor  Binley  was  looking  ever  so  much  better. 

"She's  not  half  homely  for  such  an  old  maid!"  he 
said. 

Professor  Litton  felt  murder  in  his  heart.  He 
wanted  to  slay  the  reprobate  twice — once  for  daring 
to  observe  Martha's  beauty  and  once  for  his  par- 
simony of  praise. 

That  evening  when  he  called  on  Martha  he  was 
tortured  with  a  sullen  mood.  She  finally  coaxed 
from  him  the  astounding  admission  that  he  sus- 
pected her  of  flirting  with  Mackail.  She  was  too 
new  in  love  to  recognize  the  ultimate  compliment 
of  his  distress.  She  was  horrified  by  his  distrust, 
and  so  hurt  that  she  broke  forth  in  a  storm  of 
tears  and  denunciation.  Their  precious  evening 
ended  in  a  priceless  quarrel  of  amazing  violence. 
He  stamped  down  the  outer  steps  as  she  stamped 
up  the  inner. 

For  three  days  they  did  not  meet  and  the  uni- 
versity wore  almost  visible  mourning  for  its  pets. 
Poor  Litton  had  not  known  that  the  human  heart 
could  suffer  such  agony.  He  was  fairly  burned  alive 
with  loneliness  and  resentment — like  another  Her- 
cules blistering  in  the  shirt  of  Nessus.  And  Martha 
was  suffering  likewise  as  Jason's  second  wife  was 

93 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

consumed  in  the  terrible  poisoned  robe  that  Medea 
sent  her. 

One  evening  a  hollow-eyed  Litton  crept  up  the  dor- 
mitory steps  and  asked  the  overjoyed  maid  for 
Professor  Binley.  When  she  appeared  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  were  a  spar  and  he  a  drowning 
sailor.  They  made  up  like  young  lovers  and  swore 
oaths  that  they  would  never  quarrel  again — oaths 
which,  fortunately  for  the  variety  of  their  future 
existence,  they  found  capable  of  infinite  breaking  and 
mending. 

Each  denied  that  the  other  could  possibly  love 
each.  He  decried  himself  as  a  stupid,  ugly  old  fogy; 
and  she  cried  him  up  as  the  wisest  and  most  beautiful 
and  best  of  men.  Since  best  sounded  rather  weak, 
she  called  him  the  bestest;  and  he  did  not  charge  the 
impossible  word  against  her  as  he  had  against  Teed. 
He  did  not  remember  that  Teed  had  ever  used  such 
language.  Nobody  could  ever  have  used  such  lan- 
guage, because  nobody  was  ever  like  her! 

And  when  she  said  that  he  could  not  possibly  love  a 
homely,  scrawny  old  maid  like  her,  he  delivered  a 
eulogy  that  would  have  struck  Aphrodite,  rising 
milkily  from  the  sea,  as  a  slight  exaggeration.  And 
as  for  old  maid,  he  cried  in  a  curious  blending  of 
puerility  and  scholasticism: 

"Old  maid,  do  you  say?  And  has  my  little 
Margy-wargles  forgotten  what  Sappho  said  of  an  old 
maid?  We'd  have  lost  it  if  some  old  scholiast  on 
the  stupid  old  sophist  Hermogenes  hadn't  happened 

94 


BABY   TALK 

to  quote  it  to  explain  the  word  glukumalon — an 
apple  grafted  on  a  quince.  Sappho  said  this  old 
maid  was  like — let  me  see! — 'like  the  sweet  apple 
that  blushes  on  the  top  of  the  bough — on  the  tip  of 
the  topmost;  and  the  apple-gatherers  forgot  it — 
no,  they  did  not  forget  it;  they  just  could  not  get 
it!'  And  that's  you,  Moggies  mine!  You're  an  old 
maid  because  you've  been  out  of  reach  of  everybody. 
I  can't  climb  to  you;  so  you're  going  to  drop  into 
my  arms — aren't  you  ?" 

She  said  she  supposed  she  was.     And  she  did. 

Triumphantly  he  said,  "Hadn't  we  better  an- 
nounce our  engagement?" 

This  threw  her  into  a  spasm  of  fear.  "Oh,  not 
yet!  Not  yet!  I'm  afraid  to  let  the  students  all 
know  it.  A  little  later — on  Commencement  Day 
will  be  time  enough." 

He  bowed  to  her  decision — not  for  the  last  time. 

For  a  time  Litton  had  taken  pleasure  in  employing 
his  learning  in  the  service  of  Martha's  beauty.  He 
called  her  classic  names — Mece  Delicice^  or  Glukutate, 
or  Melema.  A  poem  that  he  had  always  thought  the 
last  word  in  silliness  became  a  modest  expression  of 
his  own  emotions — the  poem  in  which  Catallus  begs 
Lesbia,  "Give  me  a  thousand  kisses,  then  a  hundred, 
then  a  thousand  more,  then  a  second  hundred;  then, 
when  we  have  made  up  thousands  galore,  we  shall 
mix  them  up  so  that  we  shall  not  know — nor  any 
enemy  be  able  to  cast  a  spell  because  he  knows — how 
many  kisses  there  are." 

95 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

His  scholarship  began  to  weary  ner,  however,  and 
it  began  to  seem  an  affectation  to  him;  so  that  he 
was  soon  mangling  the  English  language  in  speech 
and  in  the  frequent  notes  he  found  it  necessary  to 
send  his  idol  on  infinitely  unimportant  matters  that 
could  not  wait  from  after  lunch  to  after  dinner. 

She  coined  phrases  for  him,  too,  and  his  heart 
rejoiced  when  she  achieved  the  epoch-making  revi- 
sion of  Stuart  into  Stookie-tookie!  He  had  thought 
that  Toodie  was  wonderful,  but  it  was  a  mere  step- 
ping-stone to  Stookie-tookie. 

Her  babble  ran  through  his  head  like  music,  and  it 
softened  his  heart,  so  that  almost  nothing  could 
bring  him  to  earth  except  the  recitations  of  Teed, 
who  crashed  through  the  classics  like  a  bull  in  a  china- 
shop  or,  as  Litton's  Greeks  put  it,  like  an  ass  among 
beehives. 

During  those  black  days  when  Litton  had  quar- 
reled with  Martha  he  had  fiercely  reminded  Teed 
that  only  a  month  remained  before  his  final  examina- 
tions, and  warned  him  that  he  would  hold  him 
strictly  to  account.  No  classics,  no  diploma! 

Teed  had  sulked  and  moped  while  Litton  sulked  and 
moped;  but  when  Litton  was  reconciled  to  Martha 
the  sun  seemed  to  come  out  on  Teed's  clouded  world, 
too.  He  took  a  sudden  extra  interest  in  his  elec- 
trical studies  and  obtained  permission  to  work  in  the 
laboratory  overtime.  He  obtained  permission  even 
to  visit  the  big  city  for  certain  apparatus.  And 
he  wrote  the  despondent,  distant  Fannie  Newman 

96 


BABY   TALK 

that  there  would  "shortly  be  something  doing  in  the 
classics." 

VI 

One  afternoon  Professor  Litton,  having  dismissed 
his  class — in  which  he  was  obliged  to  rebuke  Teed 
more  severely  than  usual — fell  to  remembering  his 
last  communion  with  Martha,  the  things  he  had  said 
— and  heard!  He  wondered,  as  a  philologist,  at  the 
strange  prevalence  of  the  "oo"  sound  in  his  love- 
making.  It  was  plainly  an  onomatopoeic  word  repre- 
senting the  soul's  delight.  Oo!  was  what  Ah!  is  to 
the  soul  in  exaltation  and  Oh!  to  the  soul  in  surprise. 
If  the  hyacinths  babbled  Ai,  Ail  the  roses  must 
murmur  Oo!  Oo! 

The  more  he  thought  it  over,  the  more  nonsense 
it  became,  as  all  words  turn  to  drivel  on  repetition; 
but  chiefly  he  was  amazed  that  even  love  could  have 
wrought  this  change  in  him.  In  his  distress  he  hap- 
pened to  think  of  Dean  Swift.  Had  not  that  fierce 
satirist  created  a  dialect  of  his  own  for  his  everlast- 
ingly mysterious  love  affairs? 

Eager  for  the  comfort  of  fellowship  in  disgrace 
he  hurried  to  the  library  and  sought  out  the  works  of 
the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  And  in  the  "Journal  to 
Stella"  he  found  what  he  sought — and  more.  Ex- 
pressions of  the  most  appalling  coarseness  alternated 
with  the  most  insipid  tendernesses. 

The  old  dean  had  a  code  of  abbreviations:  M.  D. 
for  "My  dear,"  Ppt.  for  "Poppet,"  Pdfr.  for  "Poor 

97 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

dear  foolish  rogue,"  Oo  or  zoo  or  loo  stood  for  "you," 
Deelest  for  "Dearest,"  and  Rettle  for  "Letter,"  and 
Dallars  for  "Girl,"  Vely  for  "Very,"  and  Hele  and 
Lele  for  "Here  and  there."  Litton  copied  out  for 
his  own  comfort  and  Martha's  this  passage. 

Do  you  know  what?  When  I  am  writing  in  my  own  language 
I  make  up  my  mouth  just  as  if  I  was  speaking  it:  "Zoo  must  cly 
Lele  and  Hele,  and  Hele  aden.  Must  loo  mimitate  Pdfr.,  pay? 
Iss,  and  so  la  shall!  And  so  leles  fol  ee  rettle.  Dood  mollow." 

And  Dean  Swift  had  written  this  while  he  was  in 
London  two  hundred  years  before,  a  great  man 
among  great  men.  With  such  authority  back  of 
him  Litton  returned  to  his  empty  class-room  feeling 
as  proud  as  Gulliver  in  Lilliput.  A  little  later  he 
was  Gulliver  in  Brobdingnag. 

Alone  at  his  desk,  with  none  of  his  students  in  the 
seats  before  him,  he  took  from  his  pocket — his  left 
pocket — a  photograph  of  Prof.  Martha  Binley.  It 
had  been  taken  one  day  on  a  picnic  far  from  the  spy- 
ing eyes  of  pupils.  Her  hair  was  all  wind-blown,  her 
eyes  frowned  gleamingly  into  the  sun,  and  her 
mouth  was  curled  with  laughter. 

He  sat  there  alone — the  learned  professor — and 
talked  to  this  snapshot  in  a  dialogue  he  would  have 
recently  accepted  as  a  perfect  examination  paper  for 
matriculation  in  an  insane-asylum. 

"Well,  Margy-wargy,  zoo  and  Stookie-tookie  is 
dust  like  old  Dean  Swiffikins,  isn't  we?" 

There  was  a  rap  on  the  door  and  the  knob  turned 

98 


BABY   TALK 

as  he  shot  the  photograph  into  his  pocket  and  pre- 
tended to  be  reading  a  volume  of  Bacchylides — up- 
side down.  The  intruder  was  Teed.  Litton  was  too 
much  startled  and  too  throbbing  with  guilt  to  express 
his  indignation.  He  stammered: 

"We-well,  Teed?"  He  almost  called  him  teed- 
leums,  his  tongue  had  so  caught  the  rhythm  of  love. 

Teed  came  forward  with  an  ominous  self-con- 
fidence bordering  on  insolence.  There  was  a  glow 
in  his  eye  that  made  his  former  tyrant  quail. 

"Professor,  I'd  like  a  word  with  you  about  those 
conditions.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  off  on  'em." 

"Let  you  off,  T-Teed?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  can't  get  ready  for  the  exams. 
I've  boned  until  my  skull's  cracked  and  it  lets  the 
blamed  stuff  run  out  faster  than  I  can  cram  it  in. 
The  minute  I  leave  college  I  expect  to  forget  every- 
thing I've  learned  here,  anyway;  so  I'd  be  ever  so 
much  obliged  if  you'd  just  pass  me  along." 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  comprehend,"  said  Litton, 
who  was  beginning  to  regain  his  pedagogical  dignity. 

"All  you've  gotta  do,"  said  Teed,  "is  to  put  a  high 
enough  mark  on  my  papers.  You  gimme  a  special 
examination  and  I'll  make  the  best  stab  I  can  at 
answering  the  questions;  then  you  just  shut  one 
eye  and  mark  it  just  over  the  failure  line.  That  '11 
save  you  a  lot  o'  time  and  fix  me  hunky-dory." 

Litton  was  glaring  at  him,  hearing  the  uncouth 
"gimme"  and  "gotta,"  and  wondering  that  a  man 
could  spend  four  years  in  college  and  scrape  off  so 

8  99 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

little  paint.  Then  he  began  to  realize  the  meaning  of 
Teed's  proposal.  His  own  honor  was  in  traffic.  He 
groaned  in  suffocation: 

"Do  you  dare  to  ask  me  to  put  false  marks  on 
examination-papers,  sir?" 

"Aw,  Professor,  what's  the  dif?  You  couldn't 
grind  Latin  and  Greek  into  me  with  a  steel-rolling 
machine.  Gimme  a  chance!  There's  a  little  girl 
waiting  for  me  outside  and  a  big  job.  I  can't  get 
one  without  the  other — and  I  don't  get  either  unless 
you  folks  slip  me  the  sheepskin." 

"Impossible,  sir!  Astounding!  Insulting!  Im- 
possible!" 

"Have  a  heart,  can't  you?" 

"Leave  the  room,  sir,  at  once!" 

"All  right!"  Teed  sighed,  and  turned  away.  At 
the  door  he  paused  to  murmur,  "All  right  for  you, 
Stookie-tookie !" 

Litton's  spectacles  almost  exploded  from  his  nose. 

"What's  that?"  he  shrieked. 

Teed  turned  and  came  back,  with  an  intolerable 
smirk,  straight  to  the  desk.  He  leaned  on  it  with 
odious  familiarity  and  grinned. 

"Say,  Prof,  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  dictagraph?" 

"No!    And  I  don't  care  to  now." 

"You  ought  to  read  some  of  the  modern  languages, 
Prof!  Dictagraph  comes  from  two  perfectly  good 
Latin  words:  dictum  and  graft — well,  you'll  know 
'em.  But  the  Greeks  weren't  wise  to  this  little  de- 
vice. I  got  part  of  it  here." 

100 


BABY   TALK 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  earpiece  of  the  famil- 
iar engine  of  latter-day  detective  romance.  He  ex- 
plained it  to  the  horribly  fascinated  Litton,  whose 
hair  stood  on  end  and  whose  voice  stuck  in  his  throat 
in  the  best  Vergilian  manner.  Before  he  quite  un- 
derstood its  black  magic  Litton  suspected  the  in- 
fernal purpose  it  had  been  put  to.  His  wrath  had 
melted  to  a  sickening  fear  when  Teed  reached  the 
conclusion  of  his  uninterrupted  discourse: 

"The  other  night  I  was  calling  on  a  pair  of  girls 
at  the  dormitory  where  your — where  Professor 
Binley  lives.  They  pointed  out  the  sofa  near  the 
fireplace  where  you  and  the  professoress  sit  and  hold 
hands  and  make  googoo  eyes." 

There  was  that  awful  "oo"  sound  again!  Litton 
was  in  an  icy  perspiration;  but  he  was  even  more 
afraid  for  his  beloved,  precious  sweetheart  than  for 
himself — and  that  was  being  about  as  much  afraid 
as  there  is.  Teed  went  on  relentlessly,  gloating  like 
a  satyric  mask: 

"Well,  I  had  an  idea,  and  the  girls  fell  for  it  with 
a  yip  of  joy.  The  next  evening  I  called  I  carried  a 
wire  from  my  room  across  to  that  dormitory  and 
nobody  paid  any  attention  while  I  brought  it  through 
a  window  and  under  the  carpet  to  the  back  of  the 
sofa.  And  there  it  waited,  laying  for  you.  And 
over  at  my  digs  I  had  it  attached  to  a  phonograph 
by  a  little  invention  of  my  own. 

"Gosh!  It  was  wonderful!  It  even  repeated  the 
creak  of  those  old,  rusty  springs  while  you  waited  for 

101 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

her.  And  when  she  came — well,  anyway,  I  got  every 
word  you  said,  engraved  in  wax,  like  one  of  those  old 
poets  of  yours  used  to  write  on." 

Litton  was  afraid  to  ask  evidence  in  verification. 
Teed  supplied  the  unspoken  demand: 

"For  instance,  the  first  thing  she  says  to  you  is: 
'Oh,  there  you  are,  my  little  lover!  I  thought  you'd 
never  come!'  And  you  says,  'Did  it  miss  its  stupid 
oldStookie?'  And  she  says:  'Hideously!  Sit  down, 
honey  heart/  And  splung  went  the  spring — and 
splung  again!  Then  she  says:  'Did  it  have  a 
mis'ble  day  in  hateful  old  class-room?  Put  its 
boo'ful  head  on  Margy-wargy's  shojer.'  Then  you 
says — " 

"Stop!"  Litton  cried,  raising  the  only  missile  he 
could  find,  an  inkstand.  "Who  knows  of  this  in- 
famy besides  you?" 

"Nobody  yet — on  my  word  of  honor." 

"Honor!"  sneered  Litton,  so  savagely  that  Teed's 
shameless  leer  vanished  in  a  glare  of  anger. 

"Nobody  yet!  The  girls  are  dying  to  hear  and 
some  of  the  fellows  knew  what  I  was  up  to;  but  I 
was  thinking  that  I'd  tell  'em  that  the  blamed  thing 
didn't  work,  provided — provided — ' 

"Provided?"  Litton  wailed,  miserably. 

"Provided  you  could  see  your  way  clear  to  being 
a  little  careless  with  your  marks  on  my  exam- 
papers." 

Litton  sat  with  his  head  whirling  and  roaring  like 
a  coffee-grinder.  A  multitude  of  considerations  ran 

102 


BABY   TALK 

through  and  were  crushed  into  powder — his  honor; 
her  honor;  the  standards  of  the  university;  the 
standards  of  a  lover;  the  unimportance  of  Teed; 
the  all-importance  of  Martha;  the  secret  disloyalty 
to  the  faculty;  the  open  disloyalty  to  his  best- 
beloved.  He  heard  Teed's  voice  as  from  far  off: 

"Of  course,  if  you  can't  see  your  way  to  sparing 
my  sweetheart's  feelings  I  don't  see  why  I'm  ex- 
pected to  spare  yours — or  to  lie  to  the  fellows  and 
girls  who  are  perishing  to  hear  how  two  professors  talk 
when  they're  in  love." 

Another  long  pause.  Then  the  artful  Teed  moved 
to  the  door  and  turned  the  knob.  Litton  could  not 
speak;  but  he  threw  a  look  that  was  like  a  grappling- 
iron  and  Teed  came  back. 

"How  do  I  know,"  Litton  moaned,  "how  do  I 
know  that  you  will  keep  your  word?" 

"How  do  I  know  that  you'll  keep  yours?"  Teed 
replied,  with  the  insolence  of  a  conqueror. 

"Sir!"  Litton  flared,  but  weakly,  like  a  sick 
candle. 

"Well,"  Teed  drawled,  "I'll  bring  you  the  cylin- 
ders. I'll  have  to  trust  you,  as  one  gentleman  to 
another." 

"Gentleman!"  Litton  snarled  in  hydrophobia 
frenzy. 

"Well,  as  one  lover  to  another,  then,"  Teed 
laughed.  "Do  I  get  my  diploma?" 

Litton's  head  was  so  heavy  he  could  not  nod  it. 

"It's  my  diploma  in  exchange  for  your  records. 

103 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Come  on,  Professor — be  a  sport!  And  take  it  from 
me,  it's  no  fun  having  the  words  you  whisper  in  a 
girl's  ear  in  the  dark  shouted  out  loud  in  the  open 
court.  And  mine  were  repeated  in  a  Dutch  dialect! 
I  got  yours  just  as  they  came  from  your  lips — and 
hers." 

That  ended  it.  Litton  surrendered,  passed  him- 
self under  the  yoke;  pledged  himself  to  the  loath- 
some compact,  and  Teed  went  to  fetch  the  price 
of  his  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts. 

Litton  hung  dejected  beyond  feeling  for  a  long 
while.  His  heart  was  whimpering  Ai,  Ail  He  felt 
himself  crushed  under  a  hundred  different  crimes. 
He  felt  that  he  could  never  look  up  again.  Then 
he  heard  a  soft  tap  at  the  door.  He  could  not 
raise  his  eyes  or  his  voice.  He  heard  the  door  open 
and  supposed  it  was  Teed  bringing  him  the  wages  of 
his  shame;  but  he  heard  another  voice — an  un- 
imaginably beautiful,  tragically  tender  voice — croon- 
ing: 

"Oo-oo!    Stookie-tookie!" 

He  looked  up.  How  radiant  she  was!  He  could 
only  sigh.  She  came  across  to  him  as  gracefully 
and  lightly  as  Iris  running  down  a  rainbow.  She 
was  murmuring: 

"I  just  had  to  slip  over  and  tell  you  something." 

"Well,  Martha!"  he  sighed. 

She  stopped  short,  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"'Martha'  ?  What's  the  matter?  You  aren't  mad 
at  me,  are  you,  Stookie  ?" 

104 


BABY   TALK 

"How  could  I  be  angry  with  you,  Marg — er — 
Martha?" 

"Then  why  don't  you  call  me  Margy-wargleums  ?" 

He  stared  at  her.  Her  whimsical  smile,  trembling 
to  a  piteously  pretty  hint  of  terror,  overwhelmed 
him.  He  hesitated,  then  shoved  back  his  chair  and, 
rising,  caught  her  to  him  so  tightly  that  she  gasped 
out,  "Oo!"  There  it  was  again!  He  laughed  like  an 
overgrown  cub  as  he  cried : 

"Why  don't  I  call  you  Margy-wargleums?  Well, 
what  a  darned  fool  I'd  be  not  to!  Margy-wargleums!" 

To  such  ruin  does  love — the  blind,  the  lawless,  the 
illiterate  child — bring  the  noblest  intelligences  and 
the  loftiest  principles. 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 


THE  town  of  Wakefield  was — is — suffering  from 
growing  pains — from  ingrowing  pains,  accord- 
ing to  its  rival,  Gatesville. 

Wakefield  has  long  been  guilty  of  trying  to  add  a 
cubit  to  its  stature  by  taking  thought.  Established, 
like  thousands  of  other  pools  left  in  the  prairies  by 
that  tidal  wave  of  humanity  sweeping  westward  in 
the  middle  of  the  last  century,  it  passed  its  tenth 
thousand  with  a  rush;  then  something  happened. 

For  decades  the  decennial  census  dismally  tolled 
the  same  knell  of  fifteen  thousand  in  round  numbers. 
The  annual  censuses  but  echoed  the  reverberations. 
A  few  more  cases  of  measles  one  year,  and  the 
population  lapsed  a  little  below  the  mark;  an  easy 
winter,  and  it  slipped  a  little  above.  No  mandragora 
of  bad  times  or  bad  health  ever  quite  brought  it  so 
low  as  fourteen  thousand.  No  fever  of  prosperity 
ever  sent  the  temperature  quite  so  high  as  sixteen 
thousand. 

The  iteration  got  on  people's  nerves  till  a  com- 
mercial association  was  formed  under  the  name  of  the 
Wide-a-Wakefield  Club,  with  a  motto  of  "Boom 

1 06 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

or  Bust/*  Many  individuals  accomplished  the  lat- 
ter, but  the  town  still  failed  of  the  former.  The 
chief  activity  of  the  club  was  in  the  line  of  decoy- 
ing manufacturers  over  into  Macedonia  by  various 
bribes. 

Its  first  capture  was  a  cutlery  company  in  another 
city.  Though  apparently  prosperous,  it  had  fallen 
foul  of  the  times,  and  its  president  adroitly  allowed 
the  Wide-a-Wakefield  Club  to  learn  that,  if  a  build- 
ing of  sufficient  size  were  offered  rent  free  for  a  term 
of  years,  the  cutlery  company  might  be  induced  to 
move  to  Wakefield  and  conduct  its  business  there, 
employing  at  least  a  hundred  laborers,  year  in, 
year  out. 

There  was  not  in  all  Wakefield  a  citizen  too  dull 
to  see  the  individual  and  collective  advantage  of  this 
hundred  increase.  It  meant  money  in  the  pocket 
of  every  doctor,  lawyer,  merchant,  clothier,  boarding- 
house-keeper,  saloon-keeper,  soda-water-vender — 
whom  not? 

Every  establishment  in  town  would  profit,  from  the 
sanatorium  to  the  "pantatorium" — as  the  institu- 
tion for  the  replenishment  of  trousers  was  elegantly 
styled. 

Commercial  fervor  rose  to  such  heights  in  Wake- 
field  that  in  no  time  at  all  enough  money  was  sub- 
scribed to  build  a  convenient  factory  and  to  purchase 
as  many  of  the  shares  of  cutlery  stock  as  the  amiable 
president  cared  to  print.  In  due  season  the  manu- 
facture of  tableware  and  penknives  began,  and  the 

107 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

pride  of  the  town  was  set  aglow  by  the  trade-mark 
stamped  on  every  article  issued  from  the  cutlery 
factory.  It  was  an  ingenious  emblem — a  glorious 
Cupid  in  a  sash  marked  "Wakefield,"  stabbing  a 
miserable  Cupid  in  a  sash  marked  "Sheffield." 

It  was  Sheffield  that  survived.  In  fact,  the  stupid 
English  city  probably  never  heard  of  the  Wakefield 
Cutlery  Company.  Nor  did  Wakefield  hear  of  it 
long.  For  the  emery  dust  soon  ceased  to  glisten  in 
the  air  and  the  steel  died  of  a  distemper. 

It  was  a  very  real  shock  to  Wakefield,  and  many  a 
boy  that  had  been  meant  for  college  went  into  his 
father's  store  instead,  and  many  a  girl  who  had 
planned  to  go  East  to  be  polished  stayed  at  home 
and  polished  her  mother's  plates  and  pans,  because 
the  family  funds  had  been  invested  in  the  steel- 
engravings  of  the  cutlery  stock  certificates.  They 
were  very  handsome  engravings. 

Hope  languished  in  Wakefield  until  a  company 
from  Kenosha  consented  to  transport  its  entire  in- 
dustry thither  if  it  could  receive  a  building  rent  free. 
It  was  proffered,  and  it  accepted,  the  cutlery  works. 
For  a  season  the  neighboring  streets  were  acrid  with 
the  aroma  of  the  passionate  pickles  that  were 
bottled  there.  And  then  its  briny  deeps  ceased  to 
swim  with  knobby  condiments.  A  tin-foil  company 
abode  awhile,  and  yet  again  a  tamale-canning  cor- 
poration, which  in  its  turn  sailed  on  to  the  Sargasso 
Sea  of  missing  industries. 

Other  factory  buildings  in  Wakefield  fared  like- 

108 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

wise.  They  were  but  lodging-houses  for  transient 
failures.  The  population  swung  with  the  tide,  but 
always  at  anchor.  The  lift  which  the  census  received 
from  an  artificial-flower  company,  employing  seventy- 
five  hands,  was  canceled  by  the  demise  of  a  more 
redolent  pork-packing  concern  of  equal  pay-roll. 
People  missed  it  when  the  wind  blew  from  the 
west. 

But  Wakefield  hoped  on.  One  day  the  executive 
committee  of  the  Wide-a-Wakefield  Club,  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  met  in  executive  session.  There 
were  various  propositions  to  consider.  All  of  them 
were  written  on  letter-heads  of  the  highest  school  of 
commercial  art,  and  all  of  them  promised  to  endow 
Wakefield  with  some  epoch-making  advantage,  pro- 
vided merely  that  Wakefield  furnish  a  building  rent 
free,  tax  free,  water  free,  and  subscribe  to  a  certain 
amount  of  stock. 

The  club  regarded  these  glittering  baits  with  that 
cold  and  clammy  gaze  with  which  an  aged  trout 
of  many -scarred  gills  peruses  some  newfangled 
spoon. 

But  if  these  letters  were  tabled  with  suspicion  be- 
cause they  offered  too  much  for  too  little,  what  hos- 
pitality could  be  expected  for  a  letter  which  offered 
still  more  for  still  less?  The  chairman  of  the  com- 
mittee was  Ansel  K.  Pettibone,  whose  sign-board 
announced  him  as  a  "practical  house-painter  and 
paper-hanger."  He  read  this  letter,  head -lines 
and  all: 

109 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

MARK  A.  SHELBY       JOHN  R.  SHELBY      LUKE  B.  SHELBY 

SHELBY  PARADISE  POWDER  COMPANY 

SPRINGFIELD,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 

MAKES  WASHDAY  WELCOME.  SIDESTEP  SUBSTITUTES. 

WIDE-A-WAKEFIELD  CLUB,  Wakefield: 

DEAR  SIRS, — The  undersigned  was  born  in  your  city,  and  left 
same  about  twenty  years  ago  to  seek  his  fortune.  I  have 
finally  found  it  after  many  ups  and  downs.  Us  three  brothers 
have  jointly  perfected  and  patented  the  famous  Paradise  Powder. 
It  is  generally  conceded  to  be  the  grandest  thing  of  its  kind  ever 
put  on  the  market,  and,  in  the  words  of  the  motto,  "Makes 
Washday  Welcome."  Ladies  who  have  used  it  agree  that  our 
statement  is  not  excessive  when  we  say,  "Once  tried,  you  will 
use  no  other." 

It  is  selling  at  such  a  rate  in  the  East  that  I  have  a  personal 
profit  of  two  thousand  dollars  a  week.  We  intend  to  push  it  in 
the  West,  and  we  were  talking  of  where  would  be  the  best  place 
to  locate  a  branch  factory  at.  My  brothers  mentioned  Chicago, 
St.  Louis,  Omaha,  Denver,  and  such  places,  but  I  said,  "I  vote 
for  Wakefield."  My  brothers  said  I  was  cracked.  I  says  maybe 
I  am,  but  I'm  going  back  to  my  old  home  town  and  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  there  and  my  surplus  money,  too.  I  want  to 
beautify  Wakefield,  and  as  near  as  I  can  remember  there  is 
room  for  improvement.  It  may  not  be  good  business,  but  it  is 
what  I  want  to  do.  And  also  what  I  want  to  know  is,  can  I 
rely  on  the  co-operation  of  the  Wide-a-Wakefield  Club  in  doing 
its  share  to  build  up  the  old  town  into  a  genuine  metropolis? 
Also,  what  would  be  the  probable  cost  of  a  desirable  site  for  the 
factory  ? 

Hoping  to  receive  a  favorable  reply  from  you  at  your  earliest 
convenience, 

Yours  truly, 

LUKE  B.  SHELBY. 

The  chairman's  grin  had  grown  wider  as  he  read 

no 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

and  read.  When  he  had  finished  the  letter  he  tossed 
it  along  the  line.  Every  member  read  it  and  shook 
with  equal  laughter. 

"I  wonder  what  kind  of  green  goods  he  sells?'* 
said  Joel  Spate,  the  owner  of  the  Bon-Ton  Grocery. 

"My  father  used  to  say  to  me,"  said  Forshay,  of 
the  One-Price  Emporium,  "whatever  else  you  do, 
Jake,  always  suspicion  the  fellow  that  offers  you 
something  for  nothing.  There's  a  nigger  in  the  wood- 
pile some'eres." 

"That's  so,"  said  Soyer,  the  swell  tailor,  who  was 
strong  on  second  thought. 

"He  says  he's  goin'  to  set  up  a  factory  here,  but 
he  don't  ask  for  rent  free,  tax  free,  light  free — 
nothin'  free,"  said  the  practical  house-painter. 

"What's  the  name  again?"  said  Spate. 

"Shelby — Luke  B.  Shelby,"  answered  Pettibone. 
"Says  he  used  to  live  here  twenty  years  ago.  Ever 
hear  of  him  ?  I  never  did." 

Spate's  voice  came  from  an  ambush  of  spectacles 
and  whiskers:  "I've  lived  here  all  m'  life — I'm  sixty- 
three  next  month.  I  don't  remember  any  such  man 
or  boy." 

"Me,  neither,"  echoed  Soyer,  "and  I'm  here  going 
on  thirty-five  year." 

The  heads  shook  along  the  line  as  if  a  wind  had 
passed  over  a  row  of  wheat. 

"It's  some  new  dodge  for  sellin'  stock,"  suspicioned 
One-Price  Forshay,  who  had  a  large  collection  of 
cutlery  certificates. 

in 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"More  likely  it's  just  a  scheme  to  get  us  talking 
about  his  Paradise  Powder.  Seems  to  me  I've  had 
some  of  their  circulars,"  said  Bon-Ton  Spate. 

Pettibone,  the  practical  chairman,  silenced  the 
gossip  with  a  brisk,  "What  is  the  pleasure  of  the 
meeting  as  regards  answering  it?" 

"I  move  we  lay  it  on  the  table,"  said  Eberhart  of 
the  Furniture  Palace. 

"I  move  we  lay  it  under  the  table,"  said  Forshay, 
who  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 

"Order,  gentlemen!  Order,"  rapped  Pettibone, 
as  the  room  rocked  with  the  laughter  in  which 
Forshay  led. 

When  sobriety  was  restored  it  was  moved,  sec- 
onded, and  passed  that  the  secretary  be  instructed 
to  send  Shelby  a  copy  of  the  boom  number  of  the 
Wakefield  Daily  Eagle. 

And  in  due  time  the  homesick  Ulysses,  waiting  a 
welcome  from  Ithaca,  received  this  answer  to  his 
letter: 

LUKE  B.  SHELBY,  Springfield,  Mass. 

SIR, — Yours  of  sixteenth  inst.  rec'd  and  contents  noted.  In 
reply  to  same,  beg  to  state  are  sending  last  special  number 
Daily  Eagle,  giving  full  information  about  city  and  sites. 

Yours  truly, 
JOEL  SPATE,  Secy.  Exec.  Comm. 

Shelby  winced.  The  hand  he  had  held  out  with 
pearls  of  price  had  been  brushed  aside.  His  brothers 
laughed. 

"We  said  you  were  cracked.  They  don't  want 

112 


THE    MOUTH   OF   THE   GIFT   HORSE 

your  old  money  or  your  society.  Go  somewheres 
where  they  do." 

But  Luke  B.  Shelby  had  won  his  success  by  refus- 
ing to  be  denied,  and  he  had  set  his  heart  on  re- 
furbishing his  old  home  town.  The  instinct  of 
place  is  stronger  than  any  other  instinct  in  some 
animals,  and  Shelby  was  homesick  for  Wakefield — 
not  for  anybody,  any  house,  or  any  street  in  par- 
ticular there,  but  just  for  Wakefield. 

Without  further  ado  he  packed  his  things  and 
went. 

II 

There  was  no  brass  band  to  meet  him.  At  the 
hotel  the  clerk  read  his  name  without  emotion. 
When  he  required  the  best  two  rooms  in  the  hotel, 
and  a  bath  at  that,  the  clerk  looked  suspicious: 

"Any  baggage?" 

"Three  trunks  and  a  grip." 

"What  line  do  you  carry?  Will  you  use  the  sam- 
ple-room?" 

"Don't  carry  any  line.  Don't  want  any  sample- 
room." 

He  walked  out  to  see  the  town.  It  had  so  much 
the  same  look  that  it  seemed  to  have  been  em- 
balmed. Here  were  the  old  stores,  the  old  signs,  ap- 
parently the  same  fly-specked  wares  in  the  windows. 

He  read  Doctor  Barnby's  rusty  shingle.  Wasn't 
that  the  same  swaybacked  horse  dozing  at  the 
hitching-post? 

"3 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Here  was  the  rough  hill  road  where  he  used  to 
coast  as  a  child.  There  stood  Mrs.  Hooker  on  the 
lawn  with  a  hose,  sprinkling  the  street,  the  trees, 
the  grass,  the  oleander  in  its  tub  and  the  moon- 
flower  on  the  porch.  He  seemed  to  have  left  her 
twenty  years  ago  in  that  attitude  with  the  same 
arch  of  water  springing  from  the  nozzle. 

He  paused  before  the  same  gap-toothed  street- 
crossing  of  yore,  and  he  started  across  it  as  across 
the  stepping-stones  of  a  dry  stream.  A  raw-boned 
horse  whirled  around  the  corner,  just  avoiding  his 
toes.  It  was  followed  by  a  bouncing  grocery- 
wagon  on  the  side  of  whose  seat  dangled  a  shirt- 
sleeved  youth  who  might  have  been  Shelby  himself 
a  score  of  years  ago. 

Shelby  paused  to  watch.  The  horse  drew  up  at 
the  home  of  Doctor  Stillwell,  the  dentist.  Before 
the  wagon  was  at  rest  the  delivery-boy  was  off  and 
half-way  around  the  side  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Stillwell 
opened  the  screen  door  to  take  in  the  carrots  and  soap 
and  washing-powder  Shelby  used  to  bring  her.  Shelby 
remembered  that  she  used  washing-powder  then.  He 
wondered  if  she  had  heard  of  the  "Paradise." 

As  he  hung  poised  on  a  brink  of  memory  the  screen 
door  flapped  shut,  the  grocery-boy  was  hurrying 
back,  the  horse  was  moving  away,  and  the  boy 
leaped  to  his  side-saddle  seat  on  the  wagon  while  it 
was  in  motion.  The  delivery-wagons  and  their 
Jehus  were  the  only  things  that  moved  fast  in  Wake- 
field,  now  as  then. 

114 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

Shelby  drifted  back  to  the  main  street  and  found 
the  Bon-Ton  Grocery  where  it  had  been  when  he 
deserted  the  wagon.  The  same  old  vegetables 
seemed  to  be  sprawling  outside.  The  same  flies  were 
avid  at  the  strawberry-boxes,  which,  he  felt  sure, 
the  grocer's  wife  had  arranged  as  always,  with  the 
biggest  on  top.  He  knew  that  some  Mrs.  Spate 
had  so  distributed  them,  if  it  were  not  the  same  who 
had  hectored  him,  for  old  Spate  had  a  habit  of 
marrying  again.  His  wives  lasted  hardly  so  long 
as  his  hard-driven  horses. 

Shelby  paused  to  price  some  of  the  vegetables,  just 
to  draw  Spate  into  conversation.  The  old  man  was 
all  spectacles  and  whiskers,  as  he  had  always  been. 
Shelby  thought  he  must  have  been  born  with 
spectacles  and  whiskers. 

Joel  Spate,  never  dreaming  who  Shelby  was,  was 
gracious  to  him  for  the  first  time  in  history.  He 
evidently  looked  upon  Shelby  as  a  new-comer  who 
might  be  pre-empted  for  a  regular  customer  before 
Mrs.  L.  Bowers,  the  rival  grocer,  got  him.  It  some- 
how hurt  Shelby's  homesick  heart  to  be  unrecog- 
nized, more  than  it  pleased  him  to  enjoy  time's 
topsy-turvy.  Here  he  was,  returned  rich  and  power- 
ful, to  patronize  the  taskmaster  who  had  worked  him 
hard  and  paid  him  harder  in  the  old  years.  Yet  he 
dared  not  proclaim  himself  and  take  his  revenge. 

He  ended  the  interview  by  buying  a  few  of  the 
grocer's  horrible  cigars,  which  he  gave  away  to  the 
hotel  porter  later. 

9  US 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

All  round  the  town  Shelby  wandered,  trying  to  be 
recognized.  But  age  and  prosperity  had  altered  him 
beyond  recall,  though  he  himself  knew  almost  every 
old  negro  whitewash  man,  almost  every  teamster,  he 
met.  He  was  surer  of  the  first  names  than  of  the  last, 
for  the  first  names  had  been  most  used  in  his  day, 
and  it  surprised  him  to  find  how  clearly  he  recalled 
these  names  and  faces,  though  late  acquaintances 
escaped  his  memory  with  ease. 

The  women,  too,  he  could  generally  place,  though 
many  who  had  been  short-skirted  tomboys  were  now 
heavy-footed  matrons  of  embonpoint  with  children 
at  their  skirts,  children  as  old  as  they  themselves 
had  been  when  he  knew  them.  Some  of  them, 
indeed,  he  recognized  only  by  the  children  that 
lagged  alongside  like  early  duplicates. 

As  he  sauntered  one  street  of  homely  homes  re- 
deemed by  the  opulence  of  their  foliage,  he  saw 
coming  his  way  a  woman  whose  outlines  seemed  but 
the  enlargement  of  some  photograph  in  the  gallery 
of  remembrance.  Before  she  reached  him  he  iden- 
tified Phoebe  Carew. 

Her  mother,  he  remembered,  had  been  widowed 
early  and  had  eked  out  a  meager  income  by  making 
chocolate  fudge,  which  the  little  girl  peddled  about 
town  on  Saturday  afternoons.  And  now  the  child, 
though  she  must  be  thirty  or  thereabouts,  had  kept 
a  certain  grace  of  her  youth,  a  wistful  prettiness, 
a  girlish  unmarriedness,  that  marked  her  as  an  old 
maid  by  accident  or  choice,  not  by  nature's  decree. 

116 


THE    MOUTH   OF   THE    GIFT   HORSE 

He  wondered  if  she,  at  least,  would  pay  him  the 
compliment  of  recognition.  She  made  no  sign  of  it 
as  she  approached.  As  she  passed  he  lifted  his  hat. 

"Isn't  this  Miss  Phoebe  Carew?" 

Wakefield  women  were  not  in  danger  from  stran- 
gers' advances;  she  paused  without  alarm  and 
answered  with  an  inquiring  smile: 

"Yes." 

"You  don't  remember  me?" 

She  studied  him.     "I  seem  to,  and  yet — " 

"I'm  Luke  Shelby." 

"Luke  Shelby!  Oh  yes!  Why,  how  do  you  do?" 
She  gave  him  her  beautiful  hand,  but  she  evidently 
lacked  the  faintest  inkling  of  his  identity.  Time  had 
erased  from  recollection  the  boy  who  used  to  take  her 
sliding  on  his  sled,  the  boy  who  used  to  put  on  her 
skates  for  her,  the  boy  who  used  to  take  her  home  on 
his  grocery-wagon  sometimes,  pretending  that  he 
was  going  her  way,  just  for  the  benizon  of  her  radiant 
companionship,  her  shy  laughter. 

"I  used  to  live  here,"  he  said,  ashamed  to  be  so  for- 
gettable. "My  mother  was — my  stepfather  was  A. 
J.  Stacom,  who  kept  the  hardware-store." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said;  "they  moved  away  some  years 
ago,  didn't  they?" 

"Yes;  after  mother  died  my  stepfather  went  back 
to  Council  Bluffs,  where  we  came  from  in  the  first 
place.  I  used  to  go  to  school  with  you,  Phoebe — er 
— Miss  Carew.  Then  I  drove  Spate's  delivery- 
wagon  for  a  while  before  I  went  East." 

117 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said;  "I  think  I  remember  you  very 
well.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr. — Mr. 
Stacom." 

"Shelby,"  he  said,  and  he  was  so  heartsick  that  he 
merely  lifted  his  hat  and  added,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you 
looking  so  well." 

"You're  looking  well,  too,"  she  said,  and  smiled 
the  gracious,  empty  smile  one  visits  on  a  polite 
stranger.  Then  she  went  her  way.  In  his  lonely 
eyes  she  moved  with  a  goddess-like  grace  that  made 
clouds  of  the  uneven  pavements  where  he  stumbled 
as  he  walked  with  reverted  gaze. 

He  went  back  to  the  hotel  lonelier  than  before, 
in  a  greater  loneliness  than  Ulysses  felt  ending  his 
Odyssey  in  Ithaca.  For,  at  least,  Ulysses  was  re- 
membered by  an  old  dog  that  licked  his  hand. 

Once  in  his  room,  Shelby  sank  into  a  patent  rocker 
of  most  uncomfortable  plush.  The  inhospitable 
garishness  of  a  small-town  hotel's  luxury  expelled 
him  from  the  hateful  place,  and  he  resumed  the 
streets,  taking,  as  always,  determination  from  re- 
buff and  vowing  within  himself: 

"I'll  make  'em  remember  me.  I'll  make  the  name 
of  Shelby  the  biggest  name  in  town." 

On  the  main  street  he  found  one  lone,  bobtailed 
street-car  waiting  at  the  end  of  its  line,  its  horse 
dejected  with  the  ennui  of  its  career,  the  driver 
dozing  on  the  step. 

Shelby  decided  to  review  the  town  from  this  seedy 
chariot;  but  the  driver,  surly  with  sleep,  opened  one 

118 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

eye  and  one  corner  of  his  mouth  just  enough  to  in- 
form him  that  the  next  "run"  was  not  due  for 
fifteen  minutes. 

"I'll  change  that,"  said  Shelby.  "I'll  give  'em  a 
trolley,  and  open  cars  in  summer,  too." 

He  dragged  his  discouraged  feet  back  to  the  hotel 
and  asked  when  dinner  would  be  served. 

"Supper's  been  ready  sence  six,"  said  the  clerk, 
whose  agile  toothpick  proclaimed  that  he  himself 
had  banqueted. 

Shelby  went  into  the  dining-room.  A  haughty 
head  waitress,  zealously  chewing  gum,  ignored  him 
for  a  time,  then  piloted  him  to  a  table  where  he  found 
a  party  of  doleful  drummers  sparring  in  repartee  with 
a  damsel  of  fearful  and  wonderful  coiffure. 

She  detached  herself  reluctantly  and  eventually 
brought  Shelby  a  supper  contained  in  a  myriad  of 
tiny  barges  with  which  she  surrounded  his  plate  in  a 
far-reaching  flotilla. 

When  he  complained  that  his  steak  was  mostly 
gristle,  and  that  he  did  not  want  his  pie  yet,  Hebe 
answered : 

"Don't  get  flip!    Think  you're  at  the  Worldoff?" 

Poor  Shelby's  nerves  were  so  rocked  that  he  con- 
descended to  complain  to  the  clerk.  For  answer  he 
got  this: 

"Mamie's  all  right.  If  you  don't  like  our  ways, 
better  build  a  hotel  of  your  own." 

"I  guess  I  will,"  said  Shelby. 

He  went  to  his  room  to  read.  The  gas  was  no 

119 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

more  than  darkness  made  visible.     He  vowed  to 
change  that,  too. 

He  would  telephone  to  the  theater.  The  tele- 
phone-girl was  forever  in  answering,  and  then  she 
was  impudent.  Besides,  the  theater  was  closed. 
Shelby  learned  that  there  was  "a  movin' -  pitcher 
show  going"!  He  went,  and  it  moved  him  to  the 
door. 

The  sidewalks  were  full  of  doleful  loafers  and 
loaferesses.  Men  placed  their  chairs  in  the  street 
and  smoked  heinous  tobacco.  Girls  and  women 
dawdled  and  jostled  to  and  from  the  ice-cream-soda 
fountains. 

The  streets  that  night  were  not  lighted  at  all,  for 
the  moon  was  abroad,  and  the  board  of  aldermen 
believed  in  letting  God  do  all  He  could  for  the  town. 
In  fact,  He  did  nearly  all  that  the  town  could  show 
of  charm.  The  trees  were  majestic,  the  grass  was 
lavishly  spread,  the  sky  was  divinely  blue  by  day 
and  angelically  bestarred  at  night. 

Shelby  compared  his  boyhood  impressions  with  the 
feelings  governing  his  mind  now  that  it  was  adult 
and  traveled.  He  felt  that  he  had  grown,  but  that 
the  town  had  stuck  in  the  mire.  He  felt  an  am- 
bition to  lift  it  and  enlighten  it.  Like  the  old 
builder  who  found  Rome  brick  and  left  it  marble, 
Shelby  determined  that  the  Wakefield  which  he 
found  of  plank  he  should  leave  at  least  of  limestone. 
Everything  he  saw  displeased  him  and  urged  him  to 
reform  it  altogether,  and  he  said: 

120 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

"I'll  change  all  this.     And  they'll  love  me  for  it." 
And  he  did.     But  they — did  they? 


in 

One  day  a  greater  than  Shelby  came  to  Wake- 
field,  but  not  to  stay.  It  was  no  less  than  the 
President  of  these  United  States  swinging  around  the 
circle  in  an  inspection  of  his  realm,  with  possibly 
an  eye  to  the  nearing  moment  when  he  should  con- 
sent to  re-election.  As  his  special  train  approached 
each  new  town  the  President  studied  up  its  statistics 
so  that  he  might  make  his  speech  enjoyable  by  telling 
the  citizens  the  things  they  already  knew.  He  had 
learned  that  those  are  the  things  people  most  like 
to  hear. 

His  encyclopaedia  informed  him  that  Wakefield 
had  a  population  of  about  fifteen  thousand.  He 
could  not  know  how  venerable  an  estimate  this  was, 
for  Wakefield  was  still  fifteen  thousand — now  and 
forever,  fifteen  thousand  and  insuperable. 

The  President  had  a  mental  picture  of  just 
what  such  a  town  of  fifteen  thousand  would  look 
like,  and  he  wished  himself  back  in  the  White 
House. 

He  was  met  at  the  train  by  the  usual  enter- 
tainment committee,  which  in  this  case  coincided 
with  the  executive  committee  of  the  Wide-a-Wake- 
field  Club.  It  had  seemed  just  as  well  to  these 
members  to  elect  themselves  as  anybody  else. 

121 


IN    A    LITTLE   TOWN 

Mr.  Pettibone,  the  town's  most  important  paper- 
hanger,  was  again  chairman  after  some  lapses  from 
office.  Joel  Spate,  the  Bon-Ton  Grocer,  was  once 
more  secretary,  after  having  been  treasurer  twice 
and  president  once.  The  One-Price  Emporium, 
however,  was  now  represented  by  the  younger 
Forshay,  son  of  the  foimder,  who  had  gone  to  the 
inevitable  Greenwood  at  the  early  age  of  sixty- 
nine.  Soyer,  the  swell  tailor,  had  yielded  his  place 
to  the  stateliest  man  in.  town,  Amasa  Harbury, 
president  of  the  Wakefield  Building  and  Loan  As- 
sociation. And  Eberhart,  of  the  Furniture  Palace, 
had  been  supplanted  by  Gibson  Shoals,  the  bank 
cashier. 

To  the  President's  surprise  the  railroad  station 
proved  to  be,  instead  of  the  doleful  shed  usual  in 
those  parts,  a  graceful  edifice  of  metropolitan  archi- 
tecture. He  was  to  ride  in  an  open  carriage,  of 
course,  drawn  by  the  two  spanking  dapples  which 
usually  drew  the  hearse  when  it  was  needed.  But 
this  was  tactfully  kept  from  the  President. 

There  had  been  some  bitterness  over  the  choice 
of  the  President's  companions  in  the  carriage,  since 
it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  the  entire  committee 
of  seven  to  pile  into  the  space  of  four,  though  young 
Forshay,  who  had  inherited  his  father's  gift  of  hu- 
mor, volunteered  to  ride  on  the  President's  lap  or 
hold  him  on  his. 

The  extra  members  were  finally  consoled  by  being 
granted  the  next  carriage,  an  equipage  drawn  by  no 

122 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

less  than  the  noble  black  geldings  usually  attached  to 
the  chief  mourners'  carriage. 

As  the  President  was  escorted  to  his  place  he 
remarked  that  a  trolley-car  was  waiting  at  the 
station. 

"I  see  that  Wakefield  boasts  an  electric  line," 
he  beamed. 

"Yes,"  said  Pettibone,  "that's  some  of  Shelby's 
foolishness." 

A  look  from  Spate  silenced  him,  but  the  President 
had  not  caught  the  slip. 

The  procession  formed  behind  the  town  band, 
whose  symphony  suffered  somewhat  from  the  effort 
of  the  musicians  to  keep  one  eye  on  the  music 
and  throw  the  other  eve  backward  at  the  great 
visitor. 

"What  a  magnificent  building!"  said  the  President 
as  the  parade  turned  a  corner.  Nobody  said  any- 
thing, and  the  President  read  the  name  aloud.  "The 
Shelby  House.  A  fine  hotel!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
lifted  his  hat  to  the  cheers  from  the  white-capped 
chambermaids  and  the  black-coated  waiters  in  the 
windows.  They  were  male  waiters. 

"And  the  streets  are  lighted  by  electricity!  And 
paved  with  brick!"  the  President  said.  "Splendid! 
Splendid!  There  must  be  very  enterprising  citizens 
in  Gatesville — I  mean  Wakefield."  He  had  visited 
so  many  towns! 

"That's  a  handsome  office-building,"  was  his  next 
remark.  "It's  quite  metropolitan."  The  committee 

123 


IN   A   LITTLE    TOWN 

vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  they  could  see  that  he  was 
reading  the  sign: 

THE  SHELBY  BLOCK: 

SHELBY  INDEPENDENT  TELEPHONE  COMPANY 
SHELBY'S  PARADISE  POWDER  COMPANY 
SHELBY  ARTESIAN  WELL  COMPANY 
SHELBY  PASTIME  PARK  COMPANY 
SHELBY  OPERA  HOUSE  COMPANY 
SHELBY  STREET  RAILWAY  COMPANY 

The  committee  was  not  used  to  chatting  with 
Presidents,  and  even  the  practical  Pettibone,  who 
had  voted  against  him,  had  an  awe  of  him  in  the 
flesh.  He  decided  to  vote  for  him  next  time;  it 
would  be  comforting  to  be  able  to  say,  "Oh  yes,  I 
know  the  President  well;  I  used  to  take  long  drives 
with  him — once." 

There  were  heartaches  in  the  carriage  as  the  Presi- 
dent, who  commented  on  so  many  things,  failed  to 
comment  on  the  banner  of  welcome  over  Pettibone's 
shop,  painted  by  Pettibone's  own  practical  hand; 
or  the  gaily  bedighted  Bon-Ton  Grocery  with  the 
wonderful  arrangement  of  tomato-cans  into  the 
words,  "Welcome  to  Wakefield."  The  Building  and 
Loan  Association  had  stretched  a  streamer  across  the 
street,  too,  and  the  President  never  noticed  it.  His 
eyes  and  tongue  were  caught  away  by  the  ornate 
structure  of  the  opera-house. 

"Shelby  Opera  House.  So  many  things  named 
after  Mr.  Shelby.  Is  he  the  founder  of  the  city  or 


124 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

"No,  just  one  of  the  citizens,"  said  Pettibone. 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  meet  him." 

Three  votes  fell  from  the  Presidential  tree  with  a 
thud. 

Had  the  committee  been  able  to  imagine  in  ad- 
vance how  Shelbyisms  would  obtrude  everywhere 
upon  the  roving  eye  of  the  visitor,  whose  one  aim 
was  a  polite  desire  to  exclaim  upon  everything  ex- 
claimable,  they  might  have  laid  out  the  line  of  march 
otherwise. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  change  now,  and  they  grew 
grimmer  and  grimmer  as  the  way  led  to  the  stately 
pleasure-dome  which  Shelby  Khan  had  decreed  and 
which  imported  architects  and  landscape-gardeners 
had  established. 

Here  were  close-razored  lawns  and  terraces,  a  lake 
with  spouting  fountains,  statues  of  twisty  nymphs, 
glaring,  many-antlered  stags  and  couchant  lions, 
all  among  cedar-trees  and  flower-beds  whose  per- 
fumes saluted  the  Presidential  nostril  like  a  gentle 
hurrah. 

Emerging  through  the  trees  were  the  roofs,  the 
cupola  and  ivy-bowered  windows  of  the  home  of 
Shelby,  most  homeless  at  home.  For,  after  all  his 
munificence,  Wakefield  did  not  like  him.  The  only 
tribute  the  people  had  paid  him  was  to  boost  the 
prices  of  everything  he  bought,  from  land  to  labor, 
from  wall-paper  to  cabbages.  And  now  on  the 
town's  great  day  he  had  not  been  included  in  any 
of  the  committees  of  welcome.  He  had  been  left  to 

125 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

brood  alone  in  his  mansion  like  a  prince  in  ill  favor 
exiled  to  his  palace. 

He  did  not  know  that  his  palace  had  delighted  even 
the  jaded  eye  of  the  far-traveled  First  Citizen.  He 
only  knew  that  his  fellow-townsmen  sneered  at  it 
with  dislike. 

Shelby  was  never  told  by  the  discreet  committee- 
men  in  the  carriage  that  the  President  had  exclaimed 
on  seeing  his  home: 

"Why,  this  is  magnificent!  This  is  an  estate!  I 
never  dreamed  that — er — Wakefield  was  a  city  "of 
such  importance  and  such  wealth.  And  whose  home 
is  this?" 

Somebody  groaned,  "Shelby's.'* 

"Ah  yes;  Shelby's,  of  course.  So  many  things 
here  are  Shelby's.  You  must  be  very  proud  of  Mr. 
Shelby.  Is  he  there,  perhaps?" 

"That's  him,  standing  on  the  upper  porch  there, 
waving  his  hat,"  Pettibone  mumbled. 

The  President  waved  his  hat  at  Shelby. 

"And  the  handsome  lady  is  his  wife,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  that's  Mrs.  Shelby,"  mumbled  Spate.  "She 
was  Miss  Carew.  Used  to  teach  school  here." 

Phoebe  Shelby  was  clinging  to  her  husband's  side. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  hands  squeezed 
mute  messages  upon  his  arm,  for  she  knew  that  his 
many-wounded  heart  was  now  more  bitterly  hurt 
than  in  all  his  knowledge  of  Wakefield.  He  was  a 
prisoner  in  disgrace  gazing  through  the  bars  at  a 
festival. 

126 


THE   MOUTH   OF   THE   GIFT   HORSE 

He  never  knew  that  the  President  suggested  stop- 
ping a  moment  to  congratulate  him,  and  that  it  was 
his  own  old  taskmaster  Spate  who  ventured  to  say 
that  the  President  could  meet  him  later.  Spate 
could  rise  to  an  emergency;  the  other  committeemen 
thanked  him  with  their  eyes. 

As  the  carriage  left  the  border  of  the  Shelby  place 
the  President  turned  his  head  to  stare,  for  it  was 
beautiful,  ambitiously  beautiful.  And  something  in 
the  silent  attitude  of  the  owner  and  his  wife  struck 
a  deeper  note  in  the  noisy,  gaudy  welcome  of  the 
other  citizens. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Mr.  Shelby,"  said  the  Presi- 
dent. 

Looks  were  exchanged  among  the  committee.  All 
disliked  the  task,  but  finally  Spate  broke  the  silence. 

"Well,  Mr.  President,  Shelby  is  a  kind  of  eccentric 
man.  Some  folks  say  he's  cracked.  Used  to  drive 
a  delivery-wagon  for  me.  Ran  away  and  tried  his 
hand  at  nearly  everything.  Finally,  him  and  his 
two  brothers  invented  a  kind  of  washing-powder. 
It  was  like  a  lot  of  others,  but  they  knew  how  to  push 
it.  Borrowed  money  to  advertise  it  big.  Got  it 
started  till  they  couldn't  have  stopped  it  if  they'd 
tried.  Shelby  decided  to  come  back  here  and  estab- 
lish a  branch  factory.  That  tall  chimney  is  it.  No 
smoke  comin'  out  of  it  to-day.  He  gave  all  the 
hands  a  holiday  in  your  honor,  Mr.  President." 

The  President  said:  "Well,  that's  mighty  nice  of 
him.  So  he's  come  back  to  beautify  his  old  home, 

127 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

eh?  That's  splendid — a  fine  spirit.  Too  many  of 
us,  I'm  afraid,  forget  the  old  places  when  ambition 
carries  us  away  into  new  scenes.  Mr.  Shelby  must 
be  very  popular  here." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mr.  Pettibone  was  too  hon- 
est, or  too  something,  to  let  the  matter  pass. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  as  to  that,  Mr.  President. 
Shelby's  queer.  He's  very  pushing.  You  can't 
drive  people  more  'n  so  fast.  Shelby  is  awful  fussy. 
Now,  that  trolley  line — he  put  that  in,  but  we  didn't 
need  it." 

"Not  but  what  Wakefield  is  enterprising,"  Spate 
added,  anxiously. 

Pettibone  nodded  and  went  on:  "People  used  to 
think  the  old  bobtailed  horse-car — excuse  my  lan- 
guage— wasn't  much,  but  the  trolley-cars  are  a  long 
way  from  perfect.  Service  ain't  so  very  good. 
People  don't  ride  on  'em  much,  because  they  don't 
run  often  enough." 

The  President  started  to  say,  "'Perhaps  they  can't 
run  oftener  because  people  don't  ride  on  'em  enough," 
but  something  counseled  him  to  silence,  and  Petti- 
bone continued: 

"Same  way  with  the  electric  light.  People  that 
had  gas  hated  to  change.  He  made  it  cheap,  but 
it's  a  long  way  from  perfect.  He  put  in  an  inde- 
pendent telephone.  The  old  one  wasn't  much  good 
and  it  was  expensive.  Now  we  can  have  telephones 
at  half  the  old  price.  But  result  is,  you've  got  to 
have  two,  or  you  might  just  as  well  not  have  one. 

128 


THE    MOUTH    OF   THE    GIFT    HORSE 

Everybody  you  want  to  talk  to  is  always  on  the  other 
line." 

The  President  nodded.  He  understood  the  ancient 
war  between  the  simple  life  and  the  strenuous.  He 
wished  he  had  left  the  subject  unopened,  but  Petti- 
bone  had  warmed  to  the  theme. 

"Shelby  built  an  opery-house  and  brought  some 
first-class  troupes  here.  But  this  is  a  religious  town, 
and  people  don't  go  much  to  shows.  In  the  first 
place,  we  don't  believe  in  'em;  in  the  second  place, 
we've  been  bit  by  bad  shows  so  often.  So  his 
opery-house  costs  more  'n  it  takes  in. 

"Then  he  laid  out  the  Pastime  Park — tried  to  get 
up  games  and  things;  but  the  vacant  lots  always 
were  good  enough  for  baseball.  He  tried  to  get 
people  to  go  out  in  the  country  and  play  golf, 
too;  but  it  was  too  much  like  following  the  plow. 
Folks  here  like  to  sit  on  their  porches  when  they're 
tired. 

"He  brought  an  automobile  to  town — scared  most 
of  the  horses  to  death.  Our  women  folks  got  afraid 
to  drive  because  the  most  reliable  old  nags  tried  to 
climb  trees  whenever  Shelby  came  honking  along. 
He  built  two  or  three  monuments  to  famous  citizens, 
but  that  made  the  families  of  other  famous  citizens 
jealous. 

"He  built  that  big  home  of  his,  but  it  omy  makes 
our  wives  envious.  It's  so  far  out  that  the  society 
ladies  can't  call  much.  Besides,  they  feel  uneasy 
with  all  that  glory. 

129 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Mrs.  Shelby  has  a  man  in  a  dress-suit  to  open  the 
door.  The  rest  of  us — our  wives  answer  the  door- 
bell themselves.  Our  folks  are  kind  of  afraid  to 
invite  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  to  their  parties  for  fear 
they'll  criticize;  so  Mrs.  Shelby  feels  as  if  she  was 
deserted. 

"She  thinks  her  husband  is  mistreated,  too;  but — 
well,  Shelby's  eccentric.  He  says  we're  ungrateful. 
Maybe  we  are,  but  we  like  to  do  things  our  own  way. 
Shelby  tried  to  get  us  to  help  boost  the  town,  as  he 
calls  it.  He  offered  us  stock  in  his  ventures,  but 
we've  got  taken  in  so  often  that — well,  once  bit  is 
twice  shy,  you  know,  Mr.  President.  So  Wakefield 
stands  just  about  where  she  did  before  Shelby  came 
here." 

"Not  but  what  Wakefield  is  enterprising,"  Mr. 
Spate  repeated. 

The  President's  curiosity  overcame  his  policy. 
He  asked  one  more  question: 

"But  if  you  citizens  didn't  help  Mr.  Shelby,  how 
did  he  manage  all  these — improvements,  if  I  may 
use  the  word  ?" 

"Did  it  all  by  his  lonesome,  Mr.  President.  His 
income  was  immense.  But  he  cut  into  it  something 
terrible.  His  brothers  in  the  East  began  to  row  at 
the  way  he  poured  it  out.  When  he  began  to  draw 
in  advance  they  were  goin'  to  have  him  declared  in- 
competent. Even  his  brothers  say  he's  cracked. 
Recently  they've  drawn  in  on  him.  Won't  let  him 
spend  his  own  money." 

130 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

A  gruesome  tone  came  from  among  Spate's  spec- 
tacles and  whiskers: 

"He  won't  last  long.  Health's  giving  out.  His 
wife  told  my  wife,  the  other  day,  he  don't  sleep 
nights.  That's  a  bad  sign.  His  pride  is  set  on 
keepin'  everything  going,  though,  and  nothing  can 
hold  him.  He  wants  the  street-cars  to  run  regular, 
and  the  telephone  to  answer  quick,  even  if  the  town 
don't  support  'em.  He's  cracked — there's  nothing 
to  it." 

Amasa  Harbury,  of  the  Building  and  Loan  Asso- 
ciation, leaned  close  and  spoke  in  a  confidential 
voice: 

"He's  got  mortgages  on  'most  everything,  Mr. 
President.  He's  borrowed  on  all  his  securities  up 
to  the  hilt.  Only  yesterday  I  had  to  refuse  him  a 
second  mortgage  on  his  house.  He  stormed  around 
about  how  much  he'd  put  into  it.  I  told  him  it 
didn't  count  how  much  you  put  into  a  hole,  it  was 
how  much  you  could  get  out.  You  can  imagine  how 
much  that  palace  of  his  would  bring  in  this  town  on  a 
foreclosure  sale — about  as  much  as  a  white  elephant 
in  a  china-shop." 

"Not  but  what  Wakefield  is  enterprising,"  in- 
sisted Spate. 

The  lust  for  gossip  had  been  aroused  and  Pettibone 
threw  discretion  to  the  winds. 

"Shelby  was  hopping  mad  because  we  left  him  off 
the  committee  of  welcome,  but  we  thought  we'd 
better  stick  to  our  own  crowd  of  represent'ive 
10  131 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

citizens.  Shelby  don't  really  belong  to  Wakefield, 
anyway.  Still,  if  you  want  to  meet  him,  it  can  be 
arranged." 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  President.     "Don't  trouble." 

And  he  was  politic — or  politician — enough  to  avoid 
the  subject  thenceforward.  But  he  could  not  get 
Shelby  out  of  his  mind  that  night  as  his  car  whizzed 
on  its  way.  To  be  called  crazy  and  eccentric  and  to 
be  suspected,  feared,  resisted  by  the  very  people  he 
longed  to  lead — Presidents  are  not  unaware  of  that 
ache  of  unrequited  affection. 

The  same  evening  Shelby  and  Phoebe  Shelby 
looked  out  on  their  park.  The  crowds  that  had 
used  it  as  a  vantage-ground  for  the  pageant  had  all 
vanished,  leaving  behind  a  litter  of  rubbish,  fire- 
crackers, cigar  stubs,  broken  shrubs,  gouged  terraces. 
Not  one  of  them  had  asked  permission,  had  mur- 
mured an  apology  or  a  word  of  thanks. 

For  the  first  time  Phoebe  Shelby  noted  that  her 
husband  did  not  take  new  determination  from  rebuff. 
His  resolution  no  longer  made  a  springboard  of  re- 
sistance. He  seemed  to  lean  on  her  a  little. 


IV 

The  perennially  empty  cutlery-works  gave  the 
Wide-a-Wakefield  Club  no  rest.  Year  after  year 
the  anxiously  awaited  census  renewed  the  old  note 
of  fifteen  thousand  and  denied  the  eloquent  ar- 
gument of  increased  population.  The  committee 

132 


THE    MOUTH   OF   THE   GIFT   HORSE 

in  its  letters  continued  to  refer  to  Wakefield  as 
"thriving"  rather  than  as  "growing."  Its  ingen- 
iously evasive  circulars  finally  roused  a  curiosity  in 
Wilmer  Barstow,  a  manufacturer  of  refrigerators, 
dissatisfied  with  the  taxes  and  freight  rates  of  the 
city  of  Clayton. 

Barstow  was  the  more  willing  to  leave  Clayton 
because  he  had  suffered  there  from  that  reward 
which  is  more  unkind  than  the  winter  wind.  He 
loved  a  woman  and  paid  court  to  her,  sending  her 
flowers  at  every  possible  excuse  and  besetting  her 
with  gifts. 

She  was  not  much  of  a  woman — her  very  lover 
could  see  that;  but  he  loved  her  in  his  own  and  her 
despite.  She  was  unworthy  of  his  jewels  as  of  his 
infatuation,  yet  she  gave  him  no  courtesy  for  his 
gifts.  She  behaved  as  if  they  bored  her;  yet  he 
knew  no  other  way  to  win  her.  The  more  indif- 
ference she  showed  the  more  he  tried  to  dazzle  her. 

At  last  he  found  that  she  was  paying  court  herself 
to  a  younger  man — a  selfish  good-for-n aught  who 
made  fun  of  her  as  well  as  of  Barstow,  and  who  bor- 
rowed money  from  her  as  well  as  from  Barstow. 

When  Barstow  fully  realized  that  the  woman  had 
made  him  not  only  her  own  booby,  but  the  town 
joke  as  well,  he  could  not  endure  her  or  the  place 
longer.  He  cast  about  for  an  escape.  But  he  found 
his  factory  no  trifling  baggage  to  move. 

It  was  on  such  fertile  soil  that  one  of  the  Wide- 
a-Wakefield  circulars  fell. 

133 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

It  chimed  so  well  with  Barstow's  mood  that  he 
decided  at  least  to  look  the  town  over. 

He  came  unannounced  to  make  his  own  observa- 
tions, like  the  spies  sent  into  Canaan.  The  trolley- 
car  that  met  his  train  was  rusty,  paintless,  forlorn, 
untenanted.  He  took  a  ramshackle  hack  to  the  best 
hotel.  Its  sign-board  bore  this  legend :  "The  Palace, 
formerly  Shelby  House — entirely  new  management." 

He  saw  his  baggage  bestowed  and  went  out  to 
inspect  the  factory  building  described  to  him.  The 
cutlery-works  proved  smaller  than  his  needs,  and  it 
had  a  weary  look.  Not  far  away  he  found  a  far 
larger  factory,  idle,  empty,  closed.  The  sign  de- 
clared it  to  be  the  Wakefield  Branch  of  the  Shelby 
Paradise  Powder  Company.  He  knew  the  pros- 
perity of  that  firm  and  wondered  why  this  branch  had 
been  abandoned. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  trolley-car  overtook 
him,  and  he  boarded  it  as  a  sole  passenger. 

The  lonely  motorman  was  loquacious  and  wel- 
comed Barstow  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  welcomed  the 
wedding  guest.  He  explained  that  he  made  but 
few  trips  a  day  and  passengers  were  fewer  than  trips. 
The  company  kept  it  going  to  hold  the  franchise,  for 
some  day  Wakefield  would  reach  sixteen  thousand 
and  lift  the  hoodoo. 

The  car  passed  an  opera-house,  with  grass  aspiring 
through  the  chinks  of  the  stone  steps  leading  to  the 
boarded-up  doors. 

The  car  passed  the  Shelby  Block;  the  legend, 

134 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

"For  Rent,  apply  to  Amasa  Harbury,"  hid  the  list 
of  Shelby  enterprises. 

The  car  grumbled  through  shabby  streets  to  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  where  it  sizzled  along  a  singing 
wire  past  the  drooping  fences,  the  sagging  bleachers, 
and  the  weedy  riot  of  what  had  been  a  pleasure- 
ground.  A  few  dim  lines  in  the  grass  marked  the 
ghost  of  a  baseball  diamond,  a  circular  track,  and 
foregone  tennis-courts. 

Barstow  could  read  on  what  remained  of  the  tot- 
tering fence: 

HELBY'S  PAST  ARK 

When  the  car  had  reached  the  end  of  the  line 
Barstow  decided  to  walk  back  to  escape  the  gar- 
rulity of  the  motorman,  who  lived  a  lonely  life, 
though  he  was  of  a  sociable  disposition. 

Barstow' s  way  led  him  shortly  to  the  edge  of  a 
curious  demesne,  or  rather  the  debris  of  an  estate. 
A  chaos  of  grass  and  weeds  thrust  even  through  the 
rust  of  the  high  iron  fence  about  the  place.  Shrubs 
that  had  once  been  shapely  grew  raggedly  up  and 
swept  down  into  the  tall  and  ragged  grass.  A  few 
evergreen  trees  lifted  flowering  cones  like  funeral 
candles  in  sconces.  What  had  been  a  lake  with 
fountains  was  a  great,  cracked  basin  of  concrete 
tarnished  with  scabious  pools  thick  with  the  dead 
leaves  of  many  an  autumn. 

Barstow  entered  a  fallen  gate  and  walked  along 
paths  where  his  feet  slashed  through  barbaric  tangles 

135 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

clutching  at  him  like  fingers.  As  he  prowled,  won- 
dering what  splendor  this  could  have  been  which 
was  so  misplaced  in  so  dull  a  town  and  drooping  into 
so  early  a  neglect,  birds  took  alarm  and  went  crying 
through  the  branches.  There  were  lithe  escapes 
through  the  grass,  and  from  the  rim  of  the  lake  ugly 
toads  plounced  into  the  pool  and  set  the  water- 
spiders  scurrying  on  their  frail  catamarans. 

Two  bronze  stags  towered  knee-deep  in  verdure; 
one  had  a  single  antler,  the  other  none.  A  pair  of 
toothless  lions  brooded  over  their  lost  dignity.  Be- 
tween their  disconsolate  sentry,  mounted  flight  on 
flight  of  marble  steps  to  the  house  of  the  manor. 
It  lay  like  an  old  frigate  storm-shattered  and  flung 
aground  to  rot.  The  hospitable  doors  were  planked 
shut,  the  windows,  too;  the  floors  of  the  verandas 
were  broken  and  the  roof  was  everywhere  sunken 
and  insecure. 

At  the  portal  had  stood  two  nymphs,  now  almost 
classic  with  decay.  One  of  them,  toppling  help- 
lessly, quenched  her  bronze  torch  in  weeds.  Her 
sister  stood  erect  in  grief  like  a  daughter  of  Niobe 
wept  into  stone. 

The  scene  somehow  reminded  Barstow  of  one  of 
Poe's  landscapes.  It  was  the  corpse  of  a  home. 
Eventually  he  noticed  a  tall  woman  in  black,  seated 
on  a  bench  and  gazing  down  the  terraces  across  the 
dead  lake.  Barstow  was  tempted  to  ask  her  whose 
place  this  had  been  and  what  its  history  was,  but 
her  mien  and  her  crepe  daunted  him. 

136 


THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  GIFT  HORSE 

He  made  his  way  out  of  the  region,  looking  back 
as  he  went.  When  he  approached  the  most  neighbor- 
ing house  a  grocery-wagon  came  flying  down  the 
road.  Before  it  stopped  the  slanted  driver  was  off 
the  seat  and  half-way  across  the  yard.  In  a  moment 
he  was  back  again.  Barstow  called  out: 

"Whose  place  is  that?" 

"Shelby's." 

"Did  he  move  away?" 

But  the  horse  was  already  in  motion,  and  the 
youth  had  darted  after,  leaping  to  the  side  of  the 
seat  and  calling  back  something  which  Barstow  could 
not  hear. 

Shelby,  who  had  given  the  town  everything  he 
could,  had  even  endowed  it  with  a  ruins. 

When  Barstow  had  reached  the  hotel  again  he 
went  in  to  his  supper.  A  head  waitress,  chewing 
gum,  took  him  to  a  table  where  a  wildly  coiffed  damsel 
brought  him  a  bewildering  array  of  most  undesirable 
foods  in  a  flotilla  of  small  dishes. 

After  supper  Barstow,  following  the  suit  of  the 
other  guests,  took  a  chair  on  the  sidewalk,  for  a  little 
breeze  loafed  along  the  hot  street.  Barstow's  name 
had  been  seen  upon  the  hotel  register  and  the 
executive  committee  of  the  Wide-a-Wakefield  Club 
waited  upon  him  in  an  august  body. 

Mr.  Pettibone  introduced  himself  and  the  others. 
They  took  chairs  and  hitched  them  close  to  Barstow, 
while  they  poured  out  in  alternate  strains  the  ad- 
vantages of  Wakefield.  Barstow  listened  politely, 

137 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

but  the  empty  factory  and  the  dismantled  home  of 
Shelby  haunted  him  and  made  a  dismal  background 
to  their  advertisements. 

It  was  of  the  factory  that  he  spoke  first: 

"The  building  you  wrote  me  about  and  offered 
me  rent-free  looks  a  little  small  and  out  of  date  for 
our  plant.  I  saw  Shelby's  factory  empty.  Could 
I  rent  that  at  a  reasonable  figure,  do  you  suppose?" 

The  committee  leaped  at  the  idea  with  enthusiasm. 
Spate  laughed  through  his  beard: 

"Lord,  I  reckon  the  company  would  rent  it  to  you 
for  almost  the  price  of  the  taxes." 

Then  he  realized  that  this  was  saying  just  a  trifle 
too  much.  They  began  to  crawfish  their  way  out. 
But  Barstow  said,  with  unconviction : 

"There's  only  one  thing  that  worries  me.  Why 
did  Shelby  close  up  his  Paradise  Powder  factory  and 
move  away?" 

Pettibone  urged  the  reason  hastily:  "His  brothers 
closed  it  up  for  him.  They  wouldn't  stand  any  more 
of  his  extravagant  nonsense.  They  shut  down  the 
factory  and  then  shut  down  on  him,  too." 

"So  he  gave  up  his  house  and  moved  away?"  said 
Barstow. 

"He  gave  up  his  house  because  he  couldn't  keep 
it  up,"  said  Amasa  Harbury.  "Taxes  were  pretty 
steep  and  nobody  would  rent  it,  of  course.  It  don't 
belong  in  a  town  like  Wakefield.  Neither  did 
Shelby." 

"So  he  moved  away?" 

138 


THE   MOUTH   OF   THE   GIFT   HORSE 

"Moved  away,  nothin',"  sneered  Spate.  "He 
went  to  a  boardin'-house  and  died  there.  Left  his 
wife  a  lot  of  stock  in  a  broken-down  street-car  line, 
and  a  no-good  electric-light  company,  and  an  in- 
dependent telephone  system  that  the  regulars  gob- 
bled up.  She's  gone  back  to  teachin'  school  again. 
We  used  our  influence  to  get  her  old  job  back.  We 
didn't  think  we  ought  to  blame  her  for  the  faults 
of  Shelby." 

"And  what  had  Shelby  done?" 

They  told  him  in  their  own  way — treading  on 
one  another's  toes  in  their  anxiety;  shutting  one 
another  up;  hunching  their  chairs  together  in  a 
tangle  as  if  their  slanders  were  wares  they  were 
trying  to  sell. 

But  about  all  that  Barstow  could  make  of  the 
matter  was  that  Shelby  had  been  in  much  such  case 
as  his  own.  He  had  been  hungry  for  human  grati- 
tude, and  had  not  realized  that  it  is  won  rather  by 
accepting  than  by  bestowing  gifts. 

Barstow  sat  and  smoked  glumly  while  the  com- 
mittee clattered.  He  hardly  heard  what  they  were 
at  such  pains  to  emphasize.  He  was  musing  upon  a 
philosophy  of  his  father's: 

"There's  an  old  saying,  'Never  look  a  gift  horse  in 
the  mouth.'  But  sayings  and  doings  are  far  apart. 
If  you  can  manage  to  sell  a  man  a  horse  he'll  make  the 
best  of  the  worst  bargain;  he'll  nurse  the  nag  and 
feed  him  and  drive  him  easy  and  brag  about  his  faults. 
He'll  overlook  everything  from  spavin  to  bots;  he'll 

139 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

learn  to  think  that  a  hamstrung  hind  leg  is  the  poetry 
of  motion.  But  a  gift  horse — Lord  love  you !  If  you 
give  a  man  a  horse  he'll  look  him  in  the  mouth  and 
everywhere  else.  The  whole  family  will  take  turns 
with  a  microscope.  They'll  kick  because  he  isn't 
run  by  electricity,  and  if  he's  an  Arabian  they'll  roast 
him  because  he  holds  his  tail  so  high.  If  you  want 
folks  to  appreciate  anything  don't  give  it  to  'em; 
make  'em  work  for  it  and  pay  for  it — double  if  you 
can." 

Shelby  had  mixed  poetry  with  business,  had  given 
something  for  nothing;  had  paid  the  penalty. 


THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME 


THE  old  road  came  pouring  down  from  the 
wooded  hills  to  the  westward,  flowed  round  the 
foot  of  other  hills,  skirting  a  meadow  and  a  pond, 
and  then  went  on  easterly  about  its  business.  Al- 
most overhanging  the  road,  like  a  mill  jutting  upon 
its  journeyman  stream,  was  an  aged  house.  Still 
older  were  the  two  lofty  oaks  standing  mid-meadow 
and  imaged  again  in  the  pond.  Younger  than  oaks 
or  house  or  road,  yet  as  old  as  Scripture  allots,  was 
the  man  who  stalked  across  the  porch  and  slumped 
into  a  chair.  He  always  slumped  into  a  chair,  for 
his  muscles  still  remembered  the  days  when  he  had 
sat  only  when  he  was  worn  out.  Younger  than  oaks, 
house,  road,  or  man,  yet  older  than  a  woman  wants 
to  be,  was  the  woman  in  the  garden. 

"What  you  doin',  Maw?"  the  man  called  across 
the  rail,  though  he  could  see  perfectly  well. 

"Just  putterin'  'round  in  the  garden.  What  you 
been  doin*,  Paw?" 

"Just  putterin'  'round  the  barn.  Better  come  in 
out  the  hot  sun  and  rest  your  old  back," 

Evidently  the  idea  appealed  to  her,  for  the  sun- 

141 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

bonnet  overhanging  the  meek  potato-flowers  like  a 
flamingo's  beak  rose  in  air,  as  she  stood  erect,  or  as 
nearly  erect  as  she  ever  stood  nowadays.  She 
tossed  a  few  uprooted  weeds  over  the  lilac-hedge,  and, 
clumping  up  the  steps  of  the  porch,  slumped  into  a 
chair.  Chairs  had  once  been  her  luxury,  too.  She 
carried  a  dish-pan  full  of  green  peas,  and  as  her  gaze 
wandered  over  the  beloved  scene  her  wrinkled 
fingers  were  busy  among  the  pods,  shelling  them 
expertly,  as  if  they  knew  their  way  about  alone. 

The  old  man  sighed,  the  deep  sigh  of  ultimate 
contentment.  "Well,  Maw,  as  the  fellow  says  in 
the  circus,  here  we  are  again." 

"Here  we  are  again,  Paw." 

They  always  said  the  same  thing  about  this  time 
of  year,  when  they  wearied  of  the  splendid  home  they 
had  established  as  the  capital  of  their  estate  and 
came  back  to  the  ground  from  which  they  had 
sprung.  James  Coburn  always  said: 

"Well,  Maw,  as  the  fellow  says  in  the  circus,  here 
we  are  again." 

And  Sarah  Gregg  Coburn  always  answered: 

"Here  we  are  again,  Paw." 

This  place  was  to  them  what  old  slippers  are  to 
tired  feet.  Here  they  put  off  the  manners  and  the 
dignities  their  servants  expected  of  them,  and  lapsed 
into  shabby  clothes  and  colloquialisms,  such  as  they 
had  been  used  to  when  they  were  first  married,  long 
before  he  became  the  master  of  a  thousand  acres, 
of  cattle  upon  a  hundred  hills,  of  blooded  thorough- 

142 


THE   OLD    FOLKS    AT   HOME 

breds  and  patriarchal  stallions,  of  town  lots  and  a 
bank,  and  of  a  record  as  Congressman  for  two  terms. 
This  pilgrimage  had  become  a  sort  of  annual  elope- 
ment, the  mischief  of  two  white-haired  runaways. 
Now  that  the  graveyard  or  the  city  had  robbed 
them  of  all  their  children,  they  loved  to  turn  back 
and  play  at  an  Indian-summer  honeymoon. 

This  year,  for  the  first  time,  Maw  had  consented 
to  the  aid  of  a  "hired  girl."  She  refused  to  bring 
one  of  the  maids  or  the  cook  from  the  big  house,  and 
engaged  a  woman  from  the  village  nearest  at  hand — 
and  then  tried  to  pretend  the  woman  wasn't  there. 
It  hurt  her  to  admit  the  triumph  of  age  in  her  bones, 
but  there  was  compensation  in  the  privilege  of  hear- 
ing some  one  else  faintly  clattering  over  the  dish- 
washing of  evenings,  while  she  sat  on  the  porch  with 
Paw  and  watched  the  sunset  trail  its  gorgeous  ban- 
ners along  the  heavens  and  across  the  little  toy  sky 
of  the  pond. 

It  was  pleasant  in  the  mornings,  too,  to  lie  abed 
in  criminal  indolence,  hearing  from  afar  the  racket 
of  somebody  else  building  trie  fire.  After  breakfast 
she  made  a  brave  beginning,  only  to  turn  the  broom 
and  the  bedmaking  over  to  Susan  and  dawdle  about 
after  Paw  or  celebrate  matins  in  the  green  aisles  of 
the  garden.  But  mostly  the  old  couple  just  pre- 
tended to  do  their  chores,  and  sat  on  the  porch  and 
watched  the  clouds  go  by  and  the  frogs  flop  into  the 
pond. 

"Mail  come  yet,  Maw?'* 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Susan's  gone  for  it." 

He  glanced  up  the  road  to  a  sunbonneted  figure 
blurred  in  the  glare,  and  sniffed  amiably.  "Humph! 
Country's  getting  so  citified  the  morning  papers  are 
here  almost  before  breakfast's  cleared  off.  Re- 
member when  we  used  to  drive  eleven  mile  to  get  the 
Weekly  Tribune,  Maw?" 

"I  remember.  And  it  took  you  about  a  week  to 
read  it.  Sometimes  you  got  one  number  behind. 
Nowadays  you  finish  your  paper  in  about  five 
minutes." 

"Nothing  much  in  the  papers  nowadays  except 
murder  trials  and  divorce  cases.  I  guess  Susan  must 
have  a  mash  on  that  mail-carrier." 

"I  wish  she'd  come  on  home  and  not  gabble  so 
much." 

"Expectin'  a  letter  from  the  boy?" 

"Ought  to  be  one  this  morning." 

"You've  said  that  every  mornin'  for  three  weeks. 
I  s'pose  he's  so  busy  in  town  he  don't  realize  how 
much  his  letters  mean  to  us." 

"I  hate  to  have  him  in  the  city  with  its  dangers 
— he's  so  reckless  with  his  motor,  and  then  there's 
the  temptations  and  the  scramble  for  money.  I 
wish  Stevie  had  been  contented  to  settle  down  with 
us.  We've  got  enough,  goodness  knows.  But  I  sup- 
pose he  feels  he  must  be  a  millionaire  or  nothing, 
and  what  you've  made  don't  seem  a  drop  in  the 
bucket." 

The  old  man  winced.  He  thought  how  often  the 

144 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

boy  had  found  occasion  to  draw  on  him  for  help  in 
financing  his  "sure  things"  and  paying  up  the 
losses  on  the  "sure  things"  that  had  gone  wrong. 
Those  letters  had  been  sent  to  the  bank  in  town  and 
had  not  been  mentioned  at  home,  except  now  and 
then,  long  afterward,  when  the  wife  pressed  the  old 
man  too  hard  about  holding  back  money  from  the 
boy.  Then  he  would  unfold  a  few  figures.  They 
dazed  her,  but  they  never  convinced  her. 

Who  ever  convinced  a  woman?  Persuaded? 
Yes,  since  Eve!  Convinced?  Not  yet! 

It  hurts  a  man's  pride  to  hear  his  wife  impliedly 
disparage  his  own  achievements  in  contrast  with  his 
son's.  Not  that  he  is  jealous  of  his  son;  not  that 
he  does  not  hope  and  expect  that  the  boy  will  climb 
to  peaks  he  has  never  dared;  not  that  he  would  not 
give  his  all  and  bend  his  own  back  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  his  son's  ascension;  but  just  that  compari- 
sons are  odious.  This  disparagement  is  natural, 
though,  to  wives,  for  they  compare  what  their  hus- 
bands have  done  with  what  their  sons  are  going  to 
do. 

It  was  an  old  source  of  peevishness  with  Paw 
Coburn,  and  he  was  moved  to  say — answering  only 
by  implication  what  she  had  unconsciously  implied, 
and  seeming  to  take  his  theme  from  the  landscape 
about  them: 

"When  my  father  died  all  he  left  me  was  this 
little — bungalow  they'd  call  it  nowadays,  I  suppose, 
and  a  few  acres  'round  it.  You  remember,  Maw, 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

how,  when  the  sun  first  came  sneakin'  over  that 
knob  off  to  the  left,  the  shadow  of  those  two  oaks 
used  to  just  touch  the  stone  wall  on  the  western 
border  of  father's  property,  and  when  the  sun  was 
just  crawlin'  into  bed  behind  those  woods  off  yonder 
the  shadow  of  the  oaks  just  overlapped  the  rail  fence 
on  the  eastern  border?  That's  all  my  father  left  me 
— that  and  the  mortgage.  That's  all  I  brought  you 
home  to,  Maw.  I'm  not  disparaging  my  father. 
He  was  a  great  man.  When  he  left  his  own  home  in 
the  East  and  came  out  here  all  this  was  woods,  woods, 
woods,  far  as  you  can  see.  Even  that  pond  wasn't 
there  then.  My  father  cleared  it  all — cut  down 
everything  except  those  two  oak-trees.  He  used  to 
call  them  the  Twin  Oaks,  but  they  always  seemed 
to  me  like  man  and  wife.  I  kind  o'  like  to  think  that 
they're  you  and  me.  And  like  you  and  me  they're 
all  that's  left  standin'  of  the  old  trees.  They  were 
big  trees,  too,  and  those  were  big  days." 

The  greatness  of  his  thoughts  rendered  him  mute. 
He  was  a  plain  man,  but  he  was  hearing  the  un- 
written music  of  the  American  epic  of  the  ax  and  the 
plow,  the  more  than  Trojan  war,  the  more  than  ten 
years'  war,  against  forests  and  savages.  His  wife 
brought  him  back  from  hyper-Homeric  vision  to  the 
concrete. 

"Thank  Heaven,  Susan's  finished  gossipin'  and 
started  home." 

The  mail-carrier  in  his  little  umbrellaed  cart  was 
vanishing  up  the  hill,  and  the  sunbonnet  was  floating 

146 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

down  the  road.  The  sky  was  an  unmitigated  blue, 
save  for  a  few  masses  of  cloud,  like  piles  of  new 
fleece  on  a  shearing-floor.  Green  woods,  gray  road, 
blue  sky,  pale  clouds,  all  were  steeped  in  heat  and 
silence  so  intense  it  seemed  that  something  must 
break.  And  something  broke. 

Appallingly,  abruptly,  came  a  shattering  crash,  a 
streak  of  blinding  fire,  an  unendurable  noise,  a  sear- 
ing blast  of  blaze  as  if  the  sun  had  been  dynamite 
exploded,  splintering  the  very  joists  of  heaven.  The 
whole  air  rocked  like  a  tidal  wave  breaking  on  a 
reef;  the  house  writhed  in  all  its  timbers.  Then 
silence — unbearable  silence. 

The  old  woman,  made  a  child  again  by  a  paralytic 
stroke  of  terror,  found  herself  on  her  knees,  clinging 
frantically  to  her  husband.  The  cheek  buried  in  his 
breast  felt  the  lurch  and  leap  of  his  pounding  heart. 
Manlike,  he  found  courage  in  his  woman's  fright, 
but  his  hand  quivered  upon  her  hair;  she  heard  his 
shaken  voice  saying: 

"There,  there,  Maw,  it's  all  over/* 

When  he  dared  to  open  his  eyes  he  was  blinded 
and  dazed  like  the  stricken  Saul.  When  he  could 
see  again  he  found  the  world  unchanged.  The  sky 
was  still  there,  and  still  azure;  the  clouds  swam 
serenely;  the  road  still  poured  down  from  the  un- 
altered hills.  He  tried  to  laugh;  it  was  a  sickly 
sound  he  made. 

"I  guess  that  was  what  the  fellow  calls  a  bolt 
from  the  blue.  I've  often  heard  of  'em,  but  it's  the 

ii  147 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

first  I  ever  saw.  No  harm's  done,  Maw,  except  to 
Susan's  feelings.  She's  pickin'  herself  up  out  the 
dust  and  hurryin'  home  like  two-forty.  I  guess  the 
concussion  must  have  knocked  her  over." 

The  old  woman,  her  heart  still  fluttering  madly, 
rose  from  her  knees  with  the  tremulous  aid  of  the 
old  man  and  opened  her  eyes.  She  could  hardly 
believe  that  she  would  not  find  the  earth  an  apoc- 
alyptic ruin  of  uprooted  hills.  She  breathed  deeply 
of  the  relief,  and  her  eyes  ran  along  the  remembered 
things  as  if  calling  the  roll.  Suddenly  her  eyes 
paused,  widened.  Her  hand  went  out  to  clutch  her 
husband's  arm. 

" Look,  Paw !    The  oaks,  the  oaks !" 

The  lightning  had  leaped  upon  them  like  a  mad 
panther,  rending  their  branches  from  them,  ripping 
off  great  strips  of  bark,  and  leaving  long,  gaping 
wounds,  dripping  with  the  white  blood  of  trees. 
The  lesser  of  the  two  oaks  had  felt  the  greater  blow, 
and  would  have  toppled  to  the  ground  had  it  not 
fallen  across  its  mate;  and  its  mate,  though  grievously 
riven,  held  it  up,  with  branches  interlocking  like 
cherishing  arms. 

To  that  human  couple  the  tragedy  of  the  trees 
they  had  looked  upon  as  the  very  emblems  of 
stability  was  pitiful.  The  old  woman's  eyes  swam 
with  tears.  She  made  no  shame  of  her  sobs.  The 
old  man  tried  to  comfort  her  with  a  commonplace: 

"I  was  readin'  only  the  other  day,  Maw,  that 
oaks  attract  the  lightning  more  than  any  other 

148 


THE    OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

trees,"  and  then  he  broke  down.  "Father  always 
called  'em  the  Twin  Oaks,  but  I  always  called  'em 
you  and  me." 

The  panic-racked  Susan  came  stumbling  up  the 
steps,  gasping  with  experiences.  But  the  aged 
couple  either  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed.  With 
old  hand  embracing  old  hand  they  sat  staring  at  the 
rapine  of  the  lightning,  the  tigerish  atrocity  that  had 
butchered  and  mutilated  their  beloved  trees.  Susan 
dropped  into  Mrs.  Coburn's  lap  what  mail  she 
brought  and  hurried  inside  to  faint. 

The  old  couple  sat  in  a  stupor  long  and  long  be- 
fore Mrs.  Coburn  found  that  she  was  idly  fingering 
letters  and  papers.  She  glanced  down,  and  a  fa- 
miliar writing  brought  her  from  her  trance. 

"Oh,  Paw,  here's  a  letter  from  the  boy!  Here's  a 
letter  from  Stevie.  And  here's  your  paper." 

He  took  the  paper,  but  did  not  open  it,  turning 
instead  to  ask,  "What  does  the  boy  say?" 

With  hands  awkwardly  eager  she  ripped  the  en- 
velope, tore  out  the  letter,  and  spread  it  open  on  her 
lap,  then  pulled  her  spectacles  down  from  her  hair, 
and  read  with  loving  inflection: 

"Mr  DARLING  MOTHER  AND  DAD, — It  is  simply  heinous  the 
way  I  neglect  to  write  you,  but  somehow  the  rush  of  things 
here  keeps  me  putting  it  off  from  day  to  day.  If  remembrances 
were  letters  you  would  have  them  in  flocks,  for  I  think  of  you 
always  and  I  am  homesick  for  the  sight  of  your  blessed  faces. 

"I  should  like  to  come  out  and  see  you  in  your  little  old 
nest,  but  business  piles  up  about  me  till  I  can't  see  my  way 
out  at  present.  I  do  wish  you  could  run  down  here  and  make 

149 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

me  a  good  long  visit,  but  I  suppose  that  is  impossible,  too. 
There  are  two  or  three  big  deals  pending  that  look  promising, 
and  if  any  one  of  them  wins  out  I  shall  clean  up  enough  to  be  a 
gentleman  of  leisure.  The  first  place  I  turn  will  be  home.  My 
heart  aches  for  the  rest  and  comfort  of  your  love. 

"Write  me  often  and  tell  me  how  you  both  are,  and  believe 
me,  with  all  the  affection  in  the  world, 

"Your  devoted  son, 

"STEPHEN." 

She  pushed  her  dewy  spectacles  back  in  her  gray 
hair  and  pressed  the  letter  to  her  lips;  she  was 
smiling  as  only  old  mothers  smile  over  letters  from 
their  far-off  children.  The  man's  face  softened,  too, 
with  the  ache  that  battle-scarred  fathers  feel,  think- 
ing of  their  sons  in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  Then  he 
unfolded  his  paper,  set  his  glasses  on  his  big  nose,  and 
pursed  his  lips  to  read  what  was  new  in  the  world  at 
large.  His  wife  sat  still,  just  remembering,  perusing 
old  files  and  back  numbers  of  the  gazettes  of  her 
boy's  past,  remembering  him  from  her  first  vague 
thrill  of  him  to  his  slow  youth,  to  manhood,  and  the 
last  good-by  kiss. 

Nothing  was  heard  from  either  of  them  for  a  long 
while,  save  the  creak  of  her  chair  and  the  rustle  of 
his  paper  as  he  turned  to  the  page  recording  the 
results  in  the  incessant  Gettysburgs  over  the  prices  of 
corn,  pork,  poultry,  butter,  and  eggs.  They  were 
history  to  him.  He  could  grow  angry  over  a  drop 
in  December  wheat,  and  he  could  glow  at  a  sign  of 
feverishness  in  oats.  To-day  he  was  profoundly 
moved  to  read  that  October  ribs  had  opened  at  10.95 

150 


THE   OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

and  closed  at  11.01,  and  depressed  to  see  that  Sep- 
tember lard  had  dropped  from  11.67  to  II-6s« 

As  he  turned  the  paper  his  eye  was  caught  by  the 
head-lines  of  an  old  and  notorious  trial  at  law,  and 
he  was  confirmed  in  his  wrath.  He  growled: 

"Good  Lord,  ain't  that  dog  hung  yet?" 

"What  you  talkin'  about,  Paw?" 

"I  was  just  noticin'  that  the  third  trial  of  Tom 
Carey  is  in  full  swing  again.  It's  cost  the  State  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  already,  and  the  scoundrel 
ain't  punished  yet." 

"What  did  he  do,  Paw?" 

The  old  man  blushed  like  a  boy  as  he  stammered: 
"You're  too  young  to  know  all  he  did,  Maw.  If  I 
told  you,  you  wouldn't  understand.  But  it  ended  in 
murder.  If  he'd  been  a  low-browed  dago  they'd 
have  had  him  railroaded  to  Jericho  in  no  time.  But 
the  lawyers  are  above  the  law,  and  they've  kept  this 
fellow  from  his  deserts  till  folks  have  almost  forgot 
what  it  was  he  did.  It's  disgraceful.  It  makes  our 
courts  the  laughing-stock  of  the  world.  It  gives 
the  anarchists  an  excuse  for  saying  that  there's  one 
law  for  the  poor  and  another  for  the  rich." 

After  the  thunder  of  his  ire  had  rolled  away  there 
was  a  gentle  murmur  from  the  old  woman.  "It's 
a  terrible  thing  to  put  a  man  to  death." 

"So  it  is,  Maw,  and  if  this  fellow  had  only  realized 
it  he'd  have  kept  out  of  trouble." 

"He  was  excited,  most  likely,  and  out  of  his  head. 
What  I  mean  is,  it's  a  terrible  thing  for  a  judge  and 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

a  jury  to  try  a  man  and  take  his  life  away  from 
him." 

"Oh,  it's  terrible,  of  course,  Maw,  but  we've  got 
to  have  laws  to  hold  the  world  together,  ain't  we? 
And  if  we  don't  enforce  'em,  what's  the  use  of  havin' 
'em?" 

Silence  and  a  far-away  look  on  the  wrinkled  face 
resting  on  the  wrinkled  hand  and  then  a  quiet 
question: 

"Suppose  it  was  our  Steve?" 

"I  won't  suppose  any  such  thing.  Thank  God 
there's  been  no  stain  on  any  of  our  family,  either  side; 
just  plain  hard-workin'  folks — no  crazy  ones,  no 
criminals." 

"But  supposing  it  was  our  boy,  Paw?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  arguin'  with  a  woman! 
I  love  you  for  it,  Maw,  but — well,  I'm  sorry  I 
spoke." 

He  returned  to  his  paper,  growling  now  and  then 
as  he  read  of  some  new  quibble  devised  by  the  at- 
torneys for  the  defense.  As  softly  and  as  surrep- 
titiously as  it  begins  to  rain  on  a  cloudy  day,  she  was 
crying.  He  turned  again  with  mock  indignation. 

"Here,  here!  What  you  turning  up  about 
now?" 

"I  want  to  see  my  boy.  I'm  worried.  He  may 
be  sick.  He'd  never  let  us  know." 

The  old  man  tried  to  cajole  her  from  her  fore- 
bodings, tried  to  reason  them  away,  laugh  them  away. 
At  last  he  said,  with  a  poor  effort  at  gruffness: 

152 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

"Well,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  why  don't  you  go? 
He's  always  askin'  us  to  come  and  see  him.  I'm 
kind  o'  homesick  for  a  sight  of  the  boy  m'self.  You 
haven't  been  to  town  for  a  month  of  Sundays. 
Throw  a  few  things  in  a  valise  and  I'll  hitch  up. 
We'll  just  about  make  the  next  train  from  the 
village." 

She  needed  no  coercion  from  without.  She  rose 
at  once.  As  she  opened  the  squeaky  screen-door 
he  was  clumping  down  the  steps.  He  paused  to  call 
back: 

"Oh,  Maw!" 

"Yes,  Paw!" 

"Better  tuck  in  a  jar  of  those  preserves  you  been 
puttin'  up.  The  boy  always  liked  those  better  'n 
most  anything.  Don't  wrap  'em  in  my  nightshirt, 
though." 

She  called  out,  "All  right,"  and  the  slap  of  the 
screen-door  was  echoed  a  moment  later  by  a  similar 
sound  in  the  barn,  accompanied  by  the  old  man's 
voice: 

"Give  over,  Fan." 

II 

The  elevator-boy  hesitated.  "Oh,  yes-sum,  I  got 
a  pass-key,  all  right,  but  I  can't  hahdly  let  nobody 
in  Mista  Coburn's  'pahtment  'thout  his  awdas." 

"But  we're  his  mother  and  father." 

"Of  co'se  I  take  yo'  wud  for  that,  ma'am,  but,  you 
see,  I  can't  hahdly  let  nobody — er — um'm — thank 

153 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

you,  sir — well,  I  recKon  Mista  Coburn  might  be  mo* 
put  out  ef  I  didn't  let  you-all  in  than  ef  I  did." 

The  elevator  soared  silently  to  the  eighth  floor, 
and  there  all  three  debarked.  The  boy  was  so  much 
impressed  with  the  tip  the  old  man  had  slipped  him 
that  he  unlocked  the  door,  put  the  hand-baggage  into 
the  room,  snapped  the  switch  that  threw  on  all 
the  lights,  and  said,  "Thank  you,  sir,"  again  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

Paw  opened  it  to  give  the  boy  another  coin  and 
say:  "Don't  you  let  on  that  we're  here.  It's  a 
surprise." 

The  boy,  grinning,  promised  and  descended,  like 
an  imp  through  a  trap. 

The  old  couple  stood  stock-still,  hesitating  to 
advance.  So  many  feelings,  such  varied  timidities, 
urged  them  forward,  yet  held  them  back.  It  was 
the  home  of  the  son  they  had  begotten,  conceived, 
tended,  loved,  praised,  punished,  feared,  prayed  for, 
counseled,  provisioned,  and  surrendered.  Years  of 
separation  had  made  him  almost  a  stranger,  and  they 
dreaded  the  intrusion  into  the  home  he  had  built 
for  himself,  remote  from  their  influence.  Poor, 
weak,  silly  old  things,  with  a  boy-and-girlish  gawk- 
ishness  about  them,  the  helpless  feeling  of  uninvited 
guests! 

"You  go  first,  Paw." 

And  Paw  went  first.  On  the  sill  of  the  drawing- 
room  he  paused  and  swept  a  glance  around.  He 
would  have  given  an  arm  to  be  inspired  with  some 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

scheme  for  whisking  his  wife  away  or  changing 
what  she  must  see.  But  she  was  already  crowding 
on  his  heels,  pushing  him  forward.  There  was  no  re- 
treat. He  tried  to  laugh  it  off. 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  last,  as  the  fellow  doesn't 
say  in  the  circus/* 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit  down  and  wait. 
The  very  chairs  were  of  an  architecture  and  up- 
holstery incongruous  to  them.  They  knew  some- 
thing of  luxury,  but  not  of  this  school.  There  was 
nowhere  for  them  to  look  that  something  alien  did 
not  meet  their  eyes.  So  they  looked  at  the  floor. 

"It  gets  awful  hot  in  town,  don't  it?"  said  Paw, 
mopping  his  beaded  forehead. 

"Awful,"  said  Maw,  dabbing  at  hers. 

Eventually  they  heard  the  elevator  door  gride 
on  its  grooves.  All  the  way  in  on  the  train  they  had 
planned  to  hide  and  spring  out  on  the  boy.  They 
had  giggled  like  children  over  the  plot.  It  was 
rather  their  prearrangement  than  their  wills  that 
moved  them  to  action.  Automatically  they  hid 
themselves,  without  laughter,  rather  with  a  sort  of 
guilty  terror.  They  found  a  deep  wardrobe  closet 
and  stepped  inside,  drawing  the  door  almost  shut. 

They  heard  a  key  in  the  lock,  the  click  of  a  knob, 
the  sound  of  a  door  closed.  Then  a  pause.  They 
had  forgotten  to  turn  off  the  lights.  Hurrying  foot- 
steps, loud  on  the  bare  floor,  muffled  on  the  rugs. 
How  well  they  knew  that  step!  But  there  was  ex- 
citement in  its  rhythm.  They  could  hear  the  fa- 

155 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

miliar  voice  muttering  unfamiliarly  as  the  footsteps 
hurried  here  and  there.  He  came  into  the  room 
where  they  were.  They  could  hear  him  breathe 
now,  for  he  breathed  heavily,  as  if  he  had  been  run- 
ning. From  place  to  place  he  moved  with  a  sense 
of  restless  stealth.  At  length,  just  as  they  were 
about  to  sally  forth,  he  hurried  forward  and  flung 
open  their  door. 

Standing  among  the  hanging  clothes,  the  light 
strong  on  their  faces,  they  seemed  to  strike  him  at 
first  as  ghosts.  He  stared  at  them  aghast,  and  re- 
coiled. Then  the  old  ghosts  smiled  and  stepped  for- 
ward with  open  arms.  But  he  recoiled  again,  and 
his  welcome  to  his  far-come,  heart-hungry  parents 
was  a  groan. 

They  saw  that  he  had  a  revolver  in  his  nand.  His 
eyes  recurred  to  it,  and  he  turned  here  and  there 
for  a  place  to  lay  it,  but  seemed  unable  to  let  it  go. 
His  mother  flung  forward  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him,  her  lips  pursed  to  kiss  him,  but  he  turned  away 
with  lowered  eyes.  His  father  took  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  said: 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  boy?  Am  t  you  glad 
to  see  your  Maw — and  me?" 

For  answer  he  only  breathed  hard  and  chokingly. 
His  eyes  went  to  the  revolver  again,  then  roved 
here  and  there,  always  as  if  searching  for  a  place  to 
hide  it. 

"Give  that  thing  to  me,  Steve,"  the  old  man 
said.  And  he  took  it  in  his  hands,  forcing  from  the 

156 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT   HOME 

cold  steel  the  colder  fingers  that  clung  as  if  frozen 
about  the  handle. 

Once  he  was  free  of  the  weapon,  the  boy  toppled 
into  a  chair,  his  mother  still  clasping  him  desperately. 

The  old  man  knew  something  about  firearms, 
tie  found  the  spring,  broke  the  revolver,  and  looked 
into  the  cylinder.  In  every  chamber  was  the  round 
eye  of  a  cartridge.  Three  of  them  bore  the  little 
scar  of  the  firing-pin. 

Old  Coburn  leaned  hard  against  the  wall.  He 
looked  about  for  a  place  to  hide  the  horrible  ma- 
chine, but  he,  too,  could  not  let  go  of  it.  His 
mouth  was  full  of  the  ashes  of  life.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  drop  dead.  But  beyond  the  sick, 
clammy  face  of  his  son  he  saw  the  face  of  his  wife, 
an  old  face,  a  mother's  face,  witless  with  bewilder- 
ment. The  old  man  swallowed  hard. 

"What's  happened,  Steve?  What's  been  goin' 
on?" 

The  young  man  only  shook  his  head,  ran  his  dry 
tongue  along  his  lips,  tore  a  piece  of  loose  skin 
from  the  lower  one  with  his  teeth,  and  breathed 
noisily  through  nostrils  that  worked  like  a  dog's. 
Hs  pushed  his  mother's  hands  away  as  if  they  irked 
him.  The  old  man  could  have  struck  him  to  the 
ground  for  that  roughness,  but  the  prayers  in  the 
mother's  eyes  restrained  him. 

"Better  tell  us,  Steve.  Maybe  we  might  help 
you." 

The  young  man's  head  worked   as  if  he  were 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

gulping  at  a  hard  lump;  his  lips  moved  without 
sound,  his  gaze  leaped  from  place  to  place,  lighting 
everywhere  but  on  his  father's  waiting,  watching 
eyes,  and  always  coming  back  to  the  Revolver  with  a 
loathing  fascination.  At  last  he  spoke,  in  a  whisper 
like  the  rasp  of  chafed  husks: 

"I  had  to  do  it.     He  deserved  it.'* 

The  mother  had  not  seen  the  nicks  on  the  car- 
tridges, but  she  needed  no  such  evidence.  She 
wailed  : 

"You  don't  mean  that  you — no — no — you  didn't 
k-kill-ill-ill— " 

The  word  rattled  in  her  throat,  and  she  went  to 
the  floor  like  a  toppling  bolster.  It  was  the  old 
man  that  lifted  her  face  from  the  rug,  ran  to  fetch 
water,  and  knelt  to  restore  her.  The  son  just 
wavered  in  his  chair  and  kept  saying: 

"I  had  to  do  it.     He  was  making  her  life  a — " 

"Her  life?"  the  old  man  groaned,  looking  up  where 
he  knelt.  "Then  there's  a  woman  in  it?" 

"Yes,  it  was  for  her.  She's  had  a  hard  time. 
She's  been  horribly  misunderstood.  She  may  have 
been  indiscreet — still  she's  a  noble  woman  at  heart. 
Her  husband  was  a  vile  dog.  He  deserved  it." 

But  the  old  man's  head  had  dropped  as  if  his 
neck  were  cracked.  He  saw  what  it  all  meant  and 
would  mean.  He  would  have  sprawled  to  the  floor, 
but  he  caught  sight  of  the  pitiful  face  of  his  old  love 
still  white  with  the  half-death  of  her  swoon.  He 
clenched  his  will  with  ferocity,  resolving  that  he  must 

158 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

not  break,  could  not,  would  not  break.  He  laid  a 
hand  on  his  son's  knee  and  said,  appealingly,  in  a  low 
tone,  as  if  he  were  the  suppliant  for  mercy: 

"Better  not  mention  anything  about — about  her 
— the  woman  you  know,  Steve — before  your  mother, 
not  just  now.  Your  mother's  kind  of  poorly  the  last 
few  days.  Understand,  Steve?" 

The  answer  was  a  nod  like  the  silly  nodding  of  a 
toy  mandarin. 

It  was  a  questionable  mercy,  restoring  the  mother 
just  then  from  the  bliss  of  oblivion,  but  she  came 
gradually  back  through  a  fog  of  daze  to  the  full  glare 
of  fact.  Her  thoughts  did  not  run  forward  upon  the 
scandal,  the  horror  of  the  public,  the  outcry  of  all 
the  press;  she  had  but  one  thought,  her  son's  welfare. 

"Did  anybody  see  you,  Steve?" 

"No.  I  went  to  his  room.  I  don't  think  any- 
body s-saw  me — yes,  maybe  the  man  across  the  hall 
did.  Yes,  I  guess  he  saw  me.  He  was  at  his  door 
when  I  came  out.  He  looked  as  if  he  sus-suspected-ed 
me.  I  suppose  he  heard  the  shots.  And  probably 
he  s-saw  the  revol-ver.  I  couldn't  seem  to  let  it 
drop — to  le-let  it  drop." 

The  mother  turned  frantic.  "They'll  come  here 
for  you,  Stevie.  They'll  find  it  out.  You  must  get 
away — somewhere — for  just  now,  till  we  can  think 
up  something  to  do.  Father  will  find  some  way  of 
making  everything  all  right,  won't  you,  Paw?  He 
always  does,  you  know.  Don't  be  scared,  my  boy. 
We  must  keep  very  calm."  Her  hands  were  waver- 

159 


ing  over  him  in  a  palsy.  "Where  can  he  go,  Paw? 
Where's  the  best  place  for  him  to  go?  I'll  tell  you, 
Steve.  Is  your — your  car  anywhere  near?" 

"It's  outside  at  the  door.     I  came  back  in  it." 

She  got  to  her  feet,  and  her  urgency  was  ferocious. 
"Then  you  get  right  in  this  minute  and  go  up  to  the 
old  place — the  little  old  house  opposite  the  pond. 
Go  as  fast  as  you  can.  You  know  the  place — where 
we  lived  before  you  were  born.  There's  two  big 
oak-trees  st-standing  there,  and  a  pond  just  across 
the  road.  You  go  there  and  tell  Susan — what  shall 
he  tell  Susan,  father?  What  shall  he  tell  Susan? 
We'll  stay  here,  and — and  we'll  bribe  the  elevator- 
boy  to  say  you  haven't  come  home  at  all,  and  if  the 
po-po-lice  come  here  we'll  say  we're  expecting  you, 
but  we  haven't  seen  you  for  ever  so  long.  Won't 
we,  Paw?  That  s  what  we'll  say,  won't  we,  Paw?" 

The  old  man  stood  up  to  the  lightning  like  an  old 
oak.  Trees  do  not  run.  They  stand  fast  and  take 
what  the  sky  sends  them.  Old  Coburn  shook  his 
white  hair  as  a  tree  its  leaves  in  a  blast  of  wind  before 
he  spoke. 

"Steve,  my  boy,  I  don't  know  what  call  you  had 
to  do  this,  but  it's  no  use  trying  to  run  away  and 
hide.  They'll  get  you  wherever  you  go.  The 
telegraph  and  the  cable  and  the  detectives — no,  it's 
not  a  bit  of  use.  It  only  makes  things  look  worse. 
Put  on  your  hat  and  come  with  me.  We'll  go  to 
the  police  before  they  come  for  you.  I'll  go  with 
you,  and  I'll  see  you  through." 

160 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

But  flight,  not  fight,  was  the  woman's  one  hope. 
She  was  wild  with  resistance  to  the  idea  of  surrender. 
Her  panic  confirmed  the  young  man  in  his  one  im- 
pulse— to  get  away.  He  dashed  out  into  the  hall, 
and  when  the  father  would  have  pursued,  the  mother 
thrust  him  aside,  hurried  past,  and  braced  herself 
against  the  door.  He  put  off  her  clinging,  clutching 
hands  as  gently  as  he  might,  but  she  resisted  like  a 
tigress  at  bay,  and  before  he  could  drag  her  aside 
they  heard  the  iron-barred  door  of  the  elevator  glide 
open  and  clang  shut.  And  there  they  stood  in  the 
strange  place,  the  old  man  staggered  with  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  future,  the  old  woman  imbecile  with  fear. 

What  harm  is  it  the  honest  oaks  do,  that  Heaven 
hates  them  so  and  its  lightnings  search  them  out 
with  such  peculiar  frenzy? 

Ill 

Having  no  arenas  where  captive  gladiators  and 
martyrs  satisfy  the  public  longing  for  the  sight  of 
bleeding  flesh  and  twitching  nerve,  the  people  of  our 
day  flock  to  the  court-rooms  for  their  keenest  excite- 
ments. 

The  case  of  "The  People  vs.  Stephen  Coburn"  had 
been  an  intensely  popular  entertainment.  This  day 
the  room  was  unusually  stuffed  with  men  and  women. 
At  the  door  the  officers  leaned  like  buttresses  against 
the  thrust  of  a  solid  wall  of  humanity.  Outside, 
the  halls,  the  stairs,  and  the  sidewalk  were  jammed 

161 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

with  the  mob  crushing  toward  the  door  for  a  sight 
of  the  white-haired  mother  pilloried  in  the  witness- 
box  and  fighting  with  all  her  poor  wits  against  the 
shrewdest,  calmest,  fiercest  cross-examiner  in  the 
State. 

In  the  jury-box  the  twelve  silent  prisoners  of  pa- 
tience sat  in  awe  of  their  responsibilities,  a  dozen 
extraordinarily  ordinary,  conspicuously  average  per- 
ons  condemned  to  the  agony  of  deciding  whether  they 
should  consign  a  fellow-man  to  death  or  release  a 
murderer  among  their  fellow-men. 

Next  the  judge  sat  Sarah  Coburn,  her  withered 
hands  clenched  bonily  in  the  lap  where,  not  so  many 
years  ago,  she  had  cuddled  the  babe  that  was  now 
the  culprit  hunted  down  and  abhorred.  The  mere 
pressure  of  his  first  finger  had  sent  a  soul  into 
eternity  and  brought  the  temple  of  his  own  home 
crashing  about  his  head. 

Next  the  prisoner  sat  his  father,  veteran  now  with 
the  experience  that  runs  back  to  the  time  when  the 
first  father  and  mother  found  the  first  first-born  of 
the  world  with  hands  reddened  in  the  blood  of  the 
earliest  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  Cain. 

People  railed  in  the  street  and  in  the  press  against 
the  law's  delay  with  Stephen  Coburn's  execution 
and  against  the  ability  of  a  rich  father  to  postpone 
indefinitely  the  vengeance  of  justice.  Old  Coburn 
had  forced  the  taxpayers  to  spend  vast  sums  of 
money.  He  had  spent  vaster  sums  himself.  The 
public  and  the  prosecution,  his  own  enormously  ex- 

162 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

pensive  lawyers,  his  son  and  his  very  wife,  supposed 
that  he  still  had  vast  sums  to  spend.  It  was  solely 
his  own  secret  that  he  had  no  more.  He  had  built  his 
fortune  as  his  father  had  built  the  stone  wall  along 
his  fields,  digging  each  boulder  from  the  ground  with 
his  hands,  lugging  it  across  the  irregular  turf  and 
heaving  it  to  its  place.  Every  dollar  of  his  had  its 
history  of  effort,  of  sweat  and  ache.  And  now  the 
whole  wall  was  gone,  carried  away  in  wholesale 
sweeps  as  by  a  landslide. 

In  his  business  he  had  been  so  shrewd  and  so  close 
that  people  had  said,  "Old  Coburn  will  fight  for  five 
days  for  five  minute's  interest  on  five  cents."  When 
his  son's  liberty  was  at  stake  he  signed  blank  checks, 
he  told  his  lawyers  to  get  the  best  counsel  in  the 
nation.  He  did  not  ask,  "How  much?"  He  asked, 
"How  good?"  Every  technical  ruse  that  could  be 
employed  to  thwart  the  prosecution  he  employed. 
He  bribed  everybody  bribable  whose  silence  or  speech 
had  value.  Dangerous  witnesses  were  shipped  to 
places  whence  they  could  not  be  summonsed. 
Blackmailers  and  blackguards  fattened  on  his  gener- 
osity and  his  fear. 

The  son,  Stephen  Coburn,  had  gone  to  the  city, 
warm-hearted,  young,  venturesome,  not  vicious,  had 
learned  life  in  a  heap,  sowed  his  wild  oats  all  at  once, 
fallen  among  evil  companions,  and  drifted  by  easy 
stages  into  an  affair  of  inexcusable  ugliness,  whence 
he  seemed  unable  to  escape  till  a  misplaced  chivalry 
whispered  him  what  to  do.  He  had  found  himself 

12  163 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

like  Lancelot  with  "his  honor  rooted  in  dishonor" 
and  "faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true."  But 
Stephen  Coburn  was  no  Lancelot,  any  more  than 
his  siren  was  a  Guinevere  or  her  slain  husband  a 
King  Arthur.  He  was  simply  a  well-meaning,  hot- 
headed, madly  enamoured  young  fool.  The  proof  of 
this  last  was  that  he  took  a  revolver  to  his  Gordian 
knot.  Revolvers,  as  he  found  too  late,  do  not  solve 
problems.  They  make  a  far-reaching  noise,  and 
their  messengers  cannot  be  recalled. 

His  parents  had  not  known  the  city  phase  of  their 
son.  They  had  known  the  adorable  babe  he  had 
been,  the  good  boy  weeping  over  a  broken-winged 
robin  tumbled  from  a  nest,  running  down-stairs  in 
his  bare  feet  for  one  more  good-night  kiss,  crying  his 
heart  out  when  he  must  be  sent  away  to  school,  re- 
membering their  birthdays  and  abounding  in  gentle 
graces.  This  was  the  Stephen  Coburn  they  had 
known.  They  believed  it  to  be  the  real,  the  per- 
manent, Stephen  Coburn;  the  other  was  but  the 
victim  of  a  transient  demon.  They  could  not  be- 
lieve that  their  boy  would  harm  the  world  again. 
They  could  not  endure  the  thought  that  his  re- 
pentance and  his  atonement  should  be  frustrated  by 
a  dishonorable  end. 

The  public  knew  only  the  wicked  Stephen  Coburn. 
His  crime  had  been  his  entrance  into  fame.  All  the 
bad  things  he  had  done,  all  the  bad  people  he  had 
known,  all  the  bad  places  he  had  gone,  were  searched 
out  and  published  by  the  detectives  and  the  reporters. 

164 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

To  blacken  Stephen  Coburn's  repute  so  horribly 
that  the  jurors  would  feel  it  their  inescapable  duty 
to  scavenge  him  from  the  offended  earth,  that  was 
the  effort  of  the  prosecution.  To  prevent  that 
blackening  was  one  of  the  most  vital  and  one  of  the 
most  costly  features  of  the  defense.  To  deny  the 
murder  and  tear  down  the  web  of  circumstantial 
evidence  as  fast  as  the  State  could  weave  it  was 
another. 

The  Coburn  case  had  become  a  notorious  example 
of  that  peculiarly  American  institution,  the  serial 
trial.  The  first  instalment  had  ended  in  a  verdict 
of  guilty.  It  had  been  old  Coburn's  task  to  hold 
up  his  wife  and  his  son  in  the  collapse  of  their  mad 
despair,  while  he  managed  and  financed  the  long, 
slow  struggle  with  the  upper  courts  till  he  wrung 
from  them  an  order  for  a  new  trial.  This  had 
ended,  after  weeks  of  torment  in  the  court-room  and 
forty-eight  hours  of  almost  unbearable  suspense,  in  a 
disagreement  of  the  jury.  The  third  trial  found  the 
prosecution  more  determined  than  ever,  and  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  methods  of  the  defense.  The 
only  flaw  was  the  loss  of  an  important  witness,  "the 
man  across  the  hall,"  whom  impatient  time  had 
carried  off  to  the  place  where  subpoenas  are  not  re- 
spected. His  deposition  and  his  testimony  at  the 
previous  trials  were  as  lacking  in  vitality  as  him- 
self. 

And  now  once  more  old  Coburn  must  carry  every- 
thing upon  his  back,  aching  like  a  world-weary 

165 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Atlas  who  dares  not  shift  his  burden.  But  now  he 
was  three  years  weaker,  and  he  had  no  more  money 
to  squander.  His  house,  his  acres,  the  cattle  upon 
his  hills,  his  blooded  thoroughbreds,  his  patriarchal 
stallions,  his  town  lots,  his  bank-building,  his  bonds 
and  stocks,  all  were  sold,  pawned  as  collateral,  or 
blanketed  with  mortgages. 

As  he  had  comforted  his  wife  when  they  had  wit- 
nessed the  bolt  from  the  blue,  so  now  he  sat  facing 
her  in  her  third  ordeal.  Only  now  she  was  not  on 
the  home  porch,  but  in  the  arena.  He  could  not 
hold  her  hands.  Now  she  dared  not  close  her  eyes 
and  cry;  it  was  not  the  work  of  one  thunderbolt  she 
had  to  see.  Now,  under  the  darting  questions  of  the 
court-examiner,  she  was  like  a  frightened  girl  lost 
in  the  woods  and  groping  through  a  tempest,  with 
lightning  thrusts  pursuing  her  on  every  side,  stitching 
the  woods  with  fire  like  the  needle  in  a  sewing- 
machine  stabbing  and  stabbing  at  the  dodging 
shuttle. 

The  old  woman  had  gone  down  into  the  pit  for  her 
son.  She  had  been  led  through  the  bogs  and  the 
sewers  of  vice.  Almost  unspeakable,  almost  un- 
thinkable wickedness  had  been  taught  to  her  till  she 
had  become  deeply  versed  in  the  lore  that  saddens 
the  eyes  of  the  scarlet  women  of  Babylon.  But  still 
her  love  purified  her,  and  almost  sanctified  the 
strategy  she  practised,  the  lies  she  told,  the  truths  she 
concealed,  the  plots  she  devised  with  the  uncanny 
canniness  of  an  old  peasant.  People  not  only  felt  that 

166 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

it  was  her  duty  to  fight  for  her  young  like  a  mad  she- 
wolf,  but  they  would  have  despised  her  for  any  failure 
of  sacrifice. 

She  sat  for  hours  baffling  the  inquisitor,  foreseeing 
his  wiles  by  intuition,  evading  his  masked  pitfalls 
by  instinct.  She  was  terribly  afraid  of  him,  yet 
more  afraid  of  herself,  afraid  that  she  would  break 
down  and  become  a  brainless,  weeping  thing.  It  was 
the  sincerity  of  her  fight  against  this  weakness  that 
made  her  so  dangerous  to  the  prosecuting  attorney. 
He  wanted  to  compel  her  to  admit  that  her  son  had 
confessed  his  deed  to  her.  She  sought  to  avoid  this 
admission.  She  had  not  guessed  that  he  was  more 
in  dread  of  her  tears  than  of  her  guile.  He  was 
gentler  with  her  than  her  own  attorneys  had  been. 
At  all  costs  he  felt  that  he  must  not  succeed  too  well 
with  her. 

The  whole  trial  had  become  by  now  as  academic 
as  a  game  of  chess,  to  all  but  the  lonely,  homesick 
parents.  The  prosecuting  attorney  knew  that  the 
mother  was  not  telling  the  truth;  the  judge  and  the 
jury  knew  that  she  was  not  telling  the  truth.  But 
unless  this  could  be  geometrically  demonstrated  the 
jury  would  disregard  its  own  senses.  Yet  the 
prosecutor  knew  that  if  he  succeeded  in  trapping  the 
mother  too  abruptly  into  any  admission  dangerous 
to  her  son  she  would  probably  break  down  and  cry 
her  dreary  old  heart  out,  and  then  those  twelve 
superhuman  jurors  would  weep  with  her  and  care 
for  nothing  on  earth  except  her  consolation. 

167 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

The  crisis  came  as  crises  love  to  come,  without 
warning.  The  question  had  been  simple  enough,  and 
the  tone  as  gentle  as  possible:  "You  have  just  stated, 
Mrs.  Coburn,  that  your  son  spoke  to  you  in  his 
apartment  the  day  he  is  alleged  to  have  committed 
this  act,  but  I  find  that  at  the  first  and  second  trials 
you  testified  that  you  did  not  see  him  in  his  apart- 
ment at  all.  Which,  please,  is  the  correct  state- 
ment?" 

In  a  flash  she  realized  what  she  had  done.  It  is  so 
hard  to  build  and  defend  a  fortress  of  lies,  and  she 
was  very  old  and  not  very  wise,  tired  out,  confused 
by  the  stare  of  the  mob  and  the  knowledge  that  every 
word  she  uttered  endangered  the  life  she  had  borne. 
Now  she  felt  that  she  had  undone  everything.  She 
blamed  herself  for  ruining  the  work  of  years.  She 
saw  her  son  led  to  death  because  of  her  blunder. 
Her  answer  to  the  question  and  the  patient  courtesy 
of  the  attorney  was  to  throw  her  hands  into  the  air, 
toss  her  white  head  to  and  fro,  and  give  up  the 
battle.  The  tears  came  like  a  gush  of  blood  from  a 
deep  wound;  they  poured  through  the  lean  fingers 
she  pressed  against  her  gaunt  cheeks,  and  she  shook 
with  the  dry,  weak  weeping  of  senility  and  utter 
desolation.  Then  her  old  arms  yearned  for  him  as 
when  a  babe. 

"I  want  my  boy!    I  want  my  boy!" 

The  judge  grew  very  busy  among  his  papers,  the 
prosecuting  attorney  swallowed  hard.  The  jury- 

168 


THE   OLD    FOLKS   AT   HOME 

men  thought  no  more  of  evidence  and  of  the  stability 
of  the  laws.  They  all  had  mothers,  or  memory- 
mothers,  and  they  only  resolved  that  whatever 
crime  Stephen  Coburn  might  have  committed,  it 
would  be  a  more  dastardly  crime  for  them  to  drive 
their  twelve  daggers  into  the  aching  breast  that  had 
suckled  him.  On  the  instant  the  trial  had  resolved 
itself  into  "The  People  vs.  One  Poor  Old  Mother." 
The  jury's  tears  voted  for  them,  and  their  real 
verdict  was  surging  up  in  one  thought: 

"This  white  haired  saint  wants  her  boy:  he  may 
be  a  black  sheep,  but  she  wants  him,  and  she  shall 
have  him,  by — "  whatever  was  each  juryman's 
favorite  oath. 

When  the  judge  had  finished  his  charge  the  jury 
stumbled  on  one  another's  heels  to  get  to  their 
sanctum.  There  they  reached  a  verdict  so  quickly 
that,  as  the  saying  is,  the  foreman  was  coming  back 
into  the  court-room  before  the  twelfth  man  was  out 
of  it.  Amazed  at  their  own  unanimity,  they  were 
properly  ashamed,  each  of  the  other  eleven,  for 
their  mawkish  weakness,  and  their  treachery  to 
the  stern  requirements  of  higher  citizenship.  But 
they  went  home  not  entirely  unconsoled  by  the 
old  woman's  cry  of  beatitude  at  that  phrase,  "Not 
Guilty." 

She  went  among  them  sobbing  with  ecstasy,  and 
her  tears  splashed  their  hands  like  holy  water.  It 
was  all  outrageously  illegal,  and  sentimental,  and 
harmful  to  the  sanctity  of  the  law.  And  yet,  is  it 

169 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

entirely  desirable  that  men  should  ever  grow  un- 
mindful of  the  tears  of  old  mothers  ? 


IV 

The  road  came  pouring  down  from  the  wooded 
hills,  and  the  house  faced  the  pond  as  before.  But 
there  was  a  new  guest  in  the  house.  Up-stairs,  in  a 
room  with  a  sloping  wall  and  a  low  ceiling  and  a 
dormer  window,  sat  a  young  man  whose  face  had 
been  prominent  so  long  in  the  press  and  in  the  court- 
room that  now  he  preferred  to  keep  away  from 
human  eyes.  So  he  sat  in  the  little  room  and  read 
eternally.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  books  in 
the  whitewashed  cell  where  he  had  spent  the  three  of 
his  years  that  should  have  been  the  happiest,  busiest, 
best  of  all.  He  read  anything  he  could  find  now — 
old  books,  old  magazines,  old  newspapers.  Finally 
he  read  even  the  old  family  Bible  his  mother  had 
toted  into  his  room  for  his  comfort.  It  was  a  bulky 
tome  with  print  of  giant  size  and  pictures  of  crude 
imagery,  with  here  and  there  blank  pages  for  re- 
cording births,  deaths,  marriages.  Here  he  found  the 
names  of  all  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  all  of  them 
were  entered  among  the  deaths.  The  manners  of 
the  deaths  were  recorded  in  the  shaky  handwriting  of 
fresh  grief:  Alice  Anne,  scarlet  fever;  James  Arthur, 
Jr.,  convulsions;  Andrew  Morton,  whooping-cough; 
Cicely  Jane,  typhoid;  Amos  Turner,  drowned  while 

170 


THE    OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME 

saving  his  brother  Stephen's  life;  Edward  John, 
killed  in  train  wreck. 

Sick  at  heart,  he  turned  away  from  the  record, 
but  the  book  fell  open  of  itself  at  a  full-page  insert 
of  the  Decalogue,  illuminated  by  some  artless  printer 
with  gaudy  splotches  of  gold,  red  and  blue  and 
green  initials,  and  silly  curlicues  of  arabesque,  as 
if  the  man  had  been  ignorant  of  what  they  meant, 
those  ten  pillars  of  the  world. 

Stephen  smiled  wanly  at  the  bad  taste  of  the 
decoration,  till  one  line  of  fire  leaped  from  the  text 
at  him,  "Thou  Shalt  Not  Kill."  But  he  needed  no 
further  lessoning  in  that  wisdom.  He  retreated  from 
the  accusing  page  and  went  to  lean  against  the 
dormer  window  and  look  out  upon  the  world  from 
the  jail  of  his  past.  No  jury  could  release  him 
from  that.  Everywhere  he  looked,  everywhere  he 
thought,  he  saw  evidence  of  the  penalty  he  had 
brought  upon  his  father  and  mother,  more  than  upon 
himself  and  his  future.  He  knew  that  his  father's 
life-work  had  been  ruined,  and  that  his  honorable 
career  would  be  summed  up  in  the  remembrance  that 
he  was  the  old  man  who  bankrupted  himself  to  save 
his  son  from  the  gallows.  He  knew  that  this  very 
house,  which  remained  as  the  last  refuge,  was 
mortgaged  again  as  when  his  father  and  mother  had 
come  into  it  before  he  was  born.  The  ironic  circle 
was  complete. 

Down-stairs  he  could  hear  the  slow  and  heavy 
footsteps  of  his  father,  and  the  creak  of  the  chair  as 

171 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

he  dropped  heavily  into  it.  Then  he  heard  the 
screen-door  flap  and  heard  his  mother's  rocking- 
chair  begin  its  seesaw  strain.  He  knew  that  their 
tired  old  hands  would  be  clasped  and  that  their  tired 
old  eyes  would  be  staring  off  at  the  lightning-shat- 
tered oaks.  He  heard  them  say,  just  about  as 
always : 

"What  you  been  doin',  Paw?" 

"Just  putterin'  'round  the  barn.  What  you  been 
doin',  Maw?" 

"Just  putterin'  'round  the  kitchen  gettin'  supper 
started.  I  went  up-stairs  and  knocked  at  Stevie's 
door.  He  didn't  answer.  Guess  he's  asleep." 

"Guess  so." 

"It  seems  awful  good,  Paw,  to  be  back  in  this  old 
place,  don't  it? — you  and  me  just  settin'  here  and 
our  boy  safe  and  sound  asleep  up-stairs." 

"That's  so.  As  the  fellow  says  in  the  circus, 
here  we  are  again,  Maw." 

"Here  we  are  again,  Paw." 


AND  THIS  IS  MARRIAGE 

HIS  soul  floated  upward  from  the  lowermost 
depths  of  oblivion,  slowly,  as  a  water-plant, 
broken  beneath,  drifts  to  the  surface.  And  then  he 
was  awake  and  unutterably  afraid. 

His  soul  opened,  as  it  were,  its  eyes  in  terror  and 
his  fleshly  eyelids  went  ajar.  There  was  nothing  to 
frighten  him  except  his  own  thoughts,  but  they 
seemed  to  have  waited  all  ready  loaded  with  despair 
for  the  instant  of  his  waking. 

The  room  was  black  about  him.  The  world  was 
black.  He  had  left  the  window  open,  but  he  could 
not  see  outdoors.  Only  his  memory  told  him  where 
the  window  was.  Never  a  star  pinked  the  heavens 
to  distinguish  it.  He  could  not  tell  casement  from 
sky,  nor  window  from  wall,  nor  wall  from  ceiling  or 
floor.  He  was  as  one  hung  in  primeval  chaos  before 
light  had  been  decreed. 

He  could  not  see  his  own  pillow.  He  knew  of  it 
only  because  he  felt  it  where  it  was  hot  under  his  hot 
cheek.  He  could  not  see  the  hand  he  raised  to 
push  the  hair  from  his  wet  brow.  He  knew  that 
he  had  a  hand  and  a  brow  only  from  their  contact, 

173 


IN  A   LITTLE   TOWN 

from  the  sense  of  himself  in  them,  from  the  throb 
of  his  pulse  at  the  surface  of  himself. 

He  felt  almost  completely  disembodied,  poised  in 
space,  in  infinite  gloom,  alone  with  complete  loneliness. 
As  the  old  phrase  puts  it,  he  was  all  by  himself. 

The  only  sound  in  his  universe,  besides  the  heavy 
surf  of  his  own  blood  beating  in  his  ears,  was  the 
faint,  slow  breathing  of  his  wife,  asleep  in  the  same 
bed,  yet  separated  from  him  by  a  sword  of  hostility 
that  kept  their  souls  as  far  apart  as  planets  are. 

He  laughed  in  bitter  silence  to  think  how  false  she 
was  to  the  devoted  love  she  had  promised  him,  how 
harsh  her  last  words  had  been  and  how  strange  from 
the  lips  that  used  to  murmur  every  devotion,  every 
love-word,  every  trust. 

He  wanted  to  whirl  on  her,  shake  her  out  of  the 
cowardly  refuge  of  sleep,  and  resume  the  wrangle 
that  had  ended  in  exhaustion. 

He  wanted  to  gag  her  so  that  she  would  hear  him 
out  for  once  and  not  break  into  every  phrase.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  for  her  own  good  in  one  clear, 
cold,  logical,  unbroken  harangue  how  atrocious  she 
was,  how  futile,  fiendish,  heartless.  But  he  knew 
that  she  would  not  listen  to  him.  Even  if  he  gagged 
her  mouth  her  mind  would  still  dodge  and  buffet  him. 
How  ancient  was  the  experience  that  warned  a  man 
against  argument  with  a  woman!  And  that  wise 
old  saw,  "Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,"  referred  even  better 
to  wives.  He  would  not  let  her  know  that  he  was 
awake — awake,  perhaps,  for  hours  of  misery. 

174 


AND   THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

This  had  happened  often  of  late.  It  had  been  a 
hard  week,  day  after  day  of  bitter  toil  wearing  him 
down  in  body  and  fraying  his  every  nerve. 

His  business  was  in  a  bad  way,  and  he  alone  could 
save  it,  and  he  could  save  it  only  by  ingenuity  and 
inspiration.  But  the  inspiration,  he  was  sure,  would 
not  come  to  him  till  he  could  rest  throughout. 

Sleep  was  his  hope,  his  passion,  food,  drink, 
medicine.  He  was  heavily  pledged  at  the  bank. 
He  could  borrow  no  more.  The  president  had 
threatened  him  if  he  did  not  pay  what  was  over- 
due. Bigger  businesses  than  his  were  being  left  to 
crash.  A  financial  earthquake  was  rocking  every 
tower  in  the  world. 

Though  he  needed  cash  vitally  to  further  his 
business,  there  was  a  sharper  and  sharper  demand 
upon  him  from  creditors  desperately  harried  by 
their  own  desperate  creditors.  He  must  find  with 
his  brain  some  new  source  of  cash.  He  must  fight 
the  world.  But  how  could  he  fight  without  rest? 
Even  pugilists  rested  between  rounds. 

He  had  not  slept  a  whole  night  for  a  week.  To- 
night he  had  gone  to  bed  sternly  resolved  on  a  while 
of  annihilation.  Anything  for  the  brief  sweet  death 
with  the  morning  of  resurrection. 

And  then  she  had  quarreled  with  him.  And  now 
he  was  awake,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  not  sleep. 

He  wondered  what  the  hour  was.  He  was  tempted 
to  rise  and  make  a  light  and  look  at  his  watch,  but  he 
felt  that  the  effort  and  the  blow  of  the  glare  on  his 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

eyes  might  confirm  his  insomnia.  He  lay  and 
wondered,  consumed  with  curiosity  as  to  the  hour — 
as  if  that  knowledge  could  be  of  value. 

By  and  by,  out  of  the  stillness  and  the  widespread 
black  came  the  slumbrous  tone  of  a  far-off  town 
clock.  Three  times  it  rumored  in  the  air  as  if  dis- 
tance moaned  faintly  thrice. 

Three  o'clock!  He  had  had  but  two  hours'  sleep, 
and  would  have  no  more!  And  he  needed  ten! 
To-morrow  morning — this  morning! — he  must  join 
battle  for  his  very  existence. 

He  lay  supine,  trying  not  to  clench  a  muscle, 
seeking  to  force  his  surrender  to  inanition;  but  he 
could  not  get  sleep  though  he  implored  his  soul  for  it, 
prayed  God  for  it. 

At  length  he  ceased  to  try  to  compel  slumber.  He 
lay  musing.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  lie  musing  in  the 
dark.  His  soul  seemed  to  tug  and  waver  outside 
his  body  as  he  had  seen  an  elephant  chained  by  one 
leg  in  a  circus  tent  lean  far  away  from  its  shackles, 
and  sway  and  put  its  trunk  forth  gropingly.  His 
soul  seemed  to  be  under  his  forehead,  pushing  at  it  as 
against  a  door.  He  felt  that  if  he  had  a  larger, 
freer  forehead  he  would  have  more  soul  and  more 
room  for  his  mind  to  work. 

Then  the  great  fear  came  over  him  again.  In 
these  wakeful  moods  he  suffered  ecstasies  of  fright. 

He  was  appalled  with  life.  He  felt  helpless,  body- 
less,  doomed. 

On  his  office  wall  hung  a  calendar  with  a  colored 

176 


AND    THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

picture  showing  fishermen  in  a  little  boat  in  a  fog 
looking  up  to  see  a  great  Atlantic  liner  just  about  to 
run  them  down.  So  the  universe  loomed  over  him 
now,  rushed  down  to  crush  him.  The  other  people 
of  the  world  were  asleep  in  their  places;  his  creditors, 
his  rivals  were  resting,  gaining  strength  to  over- 
whelm him  on  the  morrow,  and  he  must  face  them 
unrefreshed. 

He  dreamed  forward  through  crisis  after  crisis, 
through  bankruptcy,  disgrace,  and  mortal  illness. 
He  thought  of  his  family,  the  children  asleep  in  their 
beds  under  the  roof  that  he  must  uphold  like  an 
Atlas.  Poor  little  demanding,  demanding  things! 
What  would  become  of  them  when  their  father  broke 
down  and  was  turned  out  of  his  factory  and  out  of  his 
home?  How  they  would  hamper  him,  cling  to  him, 
cry  out  to  him  not  to  let  them  starve,  not  to  let  them 
go  cold  or  barefoot,  not  to  turn  them  adrift. 

Yet  they  did  not  understand  him.  They  loved 
their  mother  infinitely  more.  She  watched  over 
them,  played  with  them,  cuddled  and  kissed  them, 
while  he  had  to  leave  the  house  before  they  were  up, 
and  came  home  at  night  too  fagged  to  play  their 
games  or  endure  their  noise.  And  if  they  were  to  be 
punished,  she  used  him  as  a  threat,  and  saved  them 
up  for  him  to  torment  and  denounce. 

They  loved  her  and  were  afraid  of  him.  Yet  what 
had  she  done  for  them?  She  had  conceived  them, 
borne  them,  nourished  them  for  a  year  at  most. 
Thereafter  their  food,  their  shelter,  their  clothes, 

177 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

their  education,  their  whole  prosperity  must  come 
from  their  father.  Yet  the  very  necessities  of  the 
struggle  for  their  welfare  kept  him  from  giving 
them  the  time  that  would  win  their  favor.  They 
complained  because  he  did  not  buy  them  more. 
They  were  discontented  with  what  they  had,  and 
covetous  of  what  the  neighbors'  children  had,  even 
where  it  was  less  than  their  own. 

He  busied  himself  awhile  at  figuring  out  how 
much,  all  told,  his  children's  upbringing  had  cost 
him.  The  total  was  astounding.  If  he  had  half  of 
that  sum  now  he  would  not  be  fretting  about  his  pay- 
roll or  his  notes.  He  would  triumph  over  every  ob- 
stacle. Next  he  made  estimate  of  what  the  children 
would  cost  him  in  the  future.  As  they  grew  their 
expenses  grew  with  them.  He  could  not  hope  for  the 
old  comfort  of  sons,  when  they  made  a  man  strong, 
for  nowadays  grown  sons  must  be  started  in  business 
at  huge  cost  with  doubtful  results  and  no  intention 
of  repaying  the  investment.  And  daughters  have  to 
be  dressed  up  like  holiday  packages,  expensive  gifts 
that  must  be  sent  prepaid  and  may  be  returned, 
collect. 

He  could  see  nothing  but  vanity  back  of  him  and  a 
welter  of  cost  ahead.  He  could  see  no  hope  of  ever 
catching  up,  of  ever  resting.  His  only  rest  would 
come  when  he  died. 

If  he  did  not  sleep  soon  he  would  assuredly  die  or 
go  mad.  Perhaps  he  was  going  mad  already.  He 
had  fought  too  long,  too  hard.  He  would  begin  to 

178 


AND   THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

babble  and  giggle  soon  and  be  led  away  to  twiddle 
his  fingers  and  talk  with  phantoms.  He  saw  him- 
self as  he  had  seen  other  witless,  slavering  spectacles 
that  had  once  been  human,  and  a  nausea  of  fear 
crushed  big  sweat  out  of  his  wincing  skin. 

Better  to  die  than  to  play  the  living  burlesque  of 
himself.  Better  to  die  than  to  face  the  shame  of 
failure,  the  shame  of  reproach  and  ridicule;  the 
epitaph  of  his  business  a  few  lines  in  the  small  type 
of  "Business  Troubles."  Better  to  kill  himself 
than  risk  the  danger  of  going  mad  and  killing  perhaps 
his  own  children  and  his  wife.  He  knew  a  man  once, 
a  faithful,  devoted,  gentle  struggler  with  the  world, 
whom  a  sudden  insanity  had  led  to  the  butchery 
of  his  wife  and  three  little  boys.  They  found  him 
tittering  among  his  mangled  dead,  and  calling  them 
pet  names,  telling  the  shattered  red  things  that  he  had 
wrought  God's  will  upon  them. 

What  if  this  should  come  to  him !  Better  to  end  all 
the  danger  of  that  by  removing  himself  from  the 
reach  of  mania  or  shame.  It  would  be  the  final 
proof  of  his  love  for  his  flock.  And  they  would  not 
think  bitterly  of  him.  All  things  are  forgiven  the 
dead.  They  would  miss  him  and  remember  the 
best  of  him. 

They  would  appreciate  what  they  had  cost  him, 
too,  when  they  no  longer  had  him  to  draw  on.  He 
felt  very  sorry  for  himself.  Grown  man  as  he  was, 
he  was  driven  back  into  infancy  by  his  terrors,  and 
like  a  pouting,  supperless  boy,  he  wanted  to  die  to 
13  179 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

spite  the  rest  of  the  family  and  win  their  apologies 
even  if  he  should  not  hear  them. 

He  wondered  if,  after  all,  his  wife  would  not  be 
happier  to  be  rid  of  him.  No,  she  would  regret 
him  for  one  thing  at  least,  that  he  left  her  without 
means. 

Well,  she  deserved  to  be  penniless.  Why  should 
she  expect  a  man  to  kill  himself  for  her  sake  and 
leave  her  a  wealthy  widow  to  buy  some  other  man? 
Let  her  practise  then  some  of  the  economies  he  had 
vainly  begged  of  her  before.  If  she  had  been 
worthy  of  his  posthumous  protection  she  would  not 
have  treated  him  so  outrageously  at  a  time  of  such 
stress  as  this. 

She  knew  he  was  dog-tired,  yet  she  allowed  him  to 
be  angered,  and  she  knew  just  what  themes  were  sure 
to  provoke  his  wrath.  So  she  had  harped  on  these 
till  she  had  rendered  him  to  a  frenzy. 

They  had  stood  about  or  paced  the  floor  or 
dropped  in  chairs  and  fought  as  they  flung  off  their 
clothes  piecemeal.  She  had  combed  and  brushed 
her  hair  viciously  as  she  raged,  weeping  the  un- 
beautiful  tears  of  wrath.  But  he  had  not  had  that 
comfort  of  tears;  his  tears  ran  down  the  inside  of  his 
soul  and  burned.  She  goaded  him  out  of  his  ordinary 
self-control — knew  just  how  to  do  it  and  reveled  in  it. 

No  doubt  he  had  said  things  to  her  that  a  gentle- 
man does  not  say  to  a  lady,  that  hardly  any  man 
would  say  to  any  woman.  He  was  startled  to  re- 
member what  he  had  said  to  her.  He  abhorred 

1 80 


AND    THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

the  thought  of  such  things  coming  from  his  lips 
and  to  the  mother  of  his  children.  But  the  blame  for 
these  atrocities  was  also  hers.  She  had  driven  him 
frantic;  she  would  have  driven  a  less-dignified  man 
to  violence,  to  blows,  perhaps.  And  she  had  had 
the  effrontery  to  blame  him  for  driving  her  frantic 
when  it  was  she  that  drove  him. 

Finally  they  had  stormed  themselves  out,  squan- 
dered their  vocabularies  of  abuse,  and  taken  resort 
to  silence  in  a  pretended  dignity.  That  is,  she  had 
done  this.  He  had  relapsed  into  silence  because  he 
realized  how  impervious  to  truth  or  justice  she  was. 
Facts  she  would  not  deal  in.  Logic  she  abhorred. 
Reasoning  infuriated  her. 

And  then  in  grim,  mutual  contempt  they  had 
crept  into  bed  and  lain  as  far  apart  as  they  could. 
He  would  have  gone  into  another  room,  but  she  would 
have  thought  he  was  afraid  to  hear  more  of  her.  Or 
she  would  have  come  knocking  at  the  door  and  lured 
him  back  only  to  renew  the  war  at  some  appeal  of 
his  to  that  sense  of  justice  he  was  forever  hoping  to 
find  in  her  soul. 

He  was  aligned  now  along  the  very  edge  of  the 
mattress.  It  was  childish  of  her  to  behave  so  spite- 
fully, but  what  could  he  do  except  repay  her  in  kind? 
She  would  not  have  understood  any  other  behavior. 
She  had  turned  her  back  on  him,  too,  and  stretched 
herself  as  thin  as  she  could  as  close  to  the  edge  as 
she  could  lie  without  falling  out. 

What  a  vixen  she  was!    And  at  this  time  of  all 

181 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

when  she  should  have  been  gentle,  soothing.  Even 
if  she  had  thought  him  wrong  and  misinterpreted 
his  natural  vehemence  as  virulence,  she  should  have 
been  patient.  What  was  a  wife  for  but  to  be  a  help- 
meet? She  knew  how  easily  his  temper  was  as- 
suaged, she  knew  the  very  words.  Why  had  she 
avoided  them? 

And  she  was  to  blame  for  so  many  of  his  problems. 
Her  bills  and  her  children's  bills  were  increasing. 
She  took  so  much  of  his  time.  She  needed  so  much 
entertaining,  so  much  waiting  on,  so  much  listening 
to.  Neither  she  nor  the  children  produced.  They 
simply  spent.  In  a  crisis  they  never  gave  help,  but 
exacted  it. 

In  business,  as  in  a  shipwreck,  strong  and  useful 
men  must  step  back  and  sacrifice  themselves  that  the 
women  and  children  might  be  saved — for  other  men 
to  take  care  of.  And  what  frauds  these  women 
were!  All  allurement  and  gentleness  till  they  had 
entrapped  their  victims,  then  fiends  of  exaction, 
without  sympathy  for  the  big  work  of  men,  without 
interest  in  the  world's  problems,  alert  to  ridiculous 
suspicions,  reckless  with  accusations,  incapable  of 
equity,  and  impatient  of  everything  important. 

Marriage  was  a  trap,  masking  its  steel  jaws  and  its 
chain  under  flowers.  What  changelings  brides  were! 
A  man  never  led  away  from  the  altar  the  woman  he 
led  thither.  Before  marriage,  so  interested  in  a 
man's  serious  talk  and  the  business  of  his  life! 
After  marriage,  unwilling  to  listen  to  any  news  of 

182 


AND   THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

import,  sworn  enemies  of  achievement,  putting  an 
ingrowing  sentiment  above  all  other  nobilities  of  the 
race. 

And  his  wife  was  of  all  women  the  most  womanish. 
She  had  lost  what  early  graces  she  had.  In  the 
earlier  days  they  had  never  quarreled.  That  is,  of 
course,  they  had  quarreled,  but  differently.  They 
had  left  each  other  several  times,  but  how  raptur- 
ously they  had  returned.  And  then  she  had  craved 
his  forgiveness  and  granted  hers  without  asking. 
She  had  always  forgiven  him  for  what  he  had  not 
done,  said,  or  thought,  or  for  the  things  he  had  done 
and  said  most  justly.  But  there  had  been  a  charm 
about  her,  a  sweet  foolishness  that  was  irresistible. 

In  the  dark  now  he  smiled  to  think  how  dear  and 
fascinating  she  had  been  then.  Oh,  she  had  loved 
him  then,  had  loved  the  very  faults  she  had  imagined 
in  him.  Perhaps  after  he  was  dead  she  would  re- 
member him  with  her  earlier  tenderness.  She  would 
blame  herself  for  making  him  the  irascible,  hot- 
tempered  brute  he  had  been — perhaps — at  times. 

And  now  he  had  slain  and  buried  himself,  and  his 
woe  could  burrow  no  farther  down.  His  soul  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  There  was  no  other  way 
to  go  but  upward,  and  that,  of  course,  was  im- 
possible. 

As  he  wallowed  in  the  lugubrious  comfort  of  his 
own  post-mortem  revenge  he  wished  that  he  had 
left  unsaid  some  of  the  things  he  had  said.  Quelled 
by  the  vision  of  his  wife  weeping  over  him  and  re- 

183 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

penting  her  cruelties,  they  began  to  seem  less  cruel. 
She  was  absolved  by  remorse. 

He  heard  her  sobbing  over  his  coffin  and  heard  her 
recall  her  ferocious  words  with  shame.  His  white, 
set  face  seemed  to  try  to  console  her.  He  heard 
what  he  was  trying  to  tell  her  in  all  the  gentle  under- 
standing of  the  tomb: 

"I  said  worse  things,  honey.  I  don't  know  how  I 
could  have  used  such  words  to  you,  my  sweetheart. 
A  longshoreman  wouldn't  have  called  a  fishwife 
what  I  called  you,  you  blessed  child.  But  it  was  my 
love  that  tormented  me.  If  a  man  had  quarreled 
with  me,  we'd  have  had  a  knock-down  and  drag-out 
and  nothing  more  thought  of  it.  If  any  woman  but 
you  had  denounced  me  as  you  did  I'd  have  shrugged 
my  shoulders  and  not  cared  a — at  all. 

"It  was  because  I  loved  you,  honey,  that  your  least 
frown  hurt  me  so.  But  I  didn't  really  mean  what  I 
said.  It  wasn't  true.  You're  the  best,  the  faith- 
fulest,  the  prettiest,  dearest  woman  in  all  the  world, 
and  you  were  a  precious  wife  to  me — so  much  more 
beautiful,  more  tender,  more  devoted  than  the  wives 
of  the  other  men  I  knew.  I  will  pray  God  to  bring 
you  to  me  in  the  place  I'm  going  to.  I  could  not  live 
without  you  anywhere." 

This  was  what  he  was  trying  to  tell  her,  and  could 
not  utter  a  word  of  it.  He  seemed  to  be  lying  in  his 
coffin,  staring  up  at  her  through  sealed  eyelids.  He 
could  not  purse  his  cold  lips  to  kiss  her  warm  mouth. 
He  could  not  lift  an  icy  hand  to  bless  her  brow.  They 

184 


AND    THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

would  come  soon  to  lay  the  last  board  over  his  face 
and  screw  down  the  lid.  She  would  scream  and 
fight,  but  they  would  drag  her  away.  And  he  could 
not  answer  her  wild  cries.  He  could  not  go  to  her 
rescue.  He  would  be  lifted  in  the  box  from  the 
trestles  and  carried  out  on  the  shoulders  of  other 
men,  and  slid  into  the  waiting  hearse;  and  the  horses 
would  trot  away  with  him,  leaving  her  to  penury, 
with  her  children  and  his  at  the  mercy  of  the  merci- 
less world,  while  he  was  lowered  into  a  ditch  and 
hidden  under  shovelfuls  of  dirt,  to  lie  there  motion- 
less, useless,  hideously  idle  forever. 

This  vision  of  himself  dead  was  so  vivid  that  his 
heart  jumped  in  his  breast  and  raced  like  a  propeller 
out  of  water.  The  very  pain  and  the  terror  were  joy- 
ful, for  they  meant  that  he  still  lived. 

Whatever  other  disasters  overhung  him,  he  was  at 
least  not  dead.  Better  a  beggar  slinking  along  the 
dingiest  street  than  the  wealthiest  Rothschild  under 
the  stateliest  tomb.  Better  the  sneers  and  pity  of 
the  world  in  whispers  about  his  path  than  all  the 
empty  praise  of  the  most  resounding  obituary. 

The  main  thing  was  to  be  alive.  Before  that  great 
good  fortune  all  misfortunes  were  minor,  unimpor- 
tant details.  And,  after  all,  he  was  not  so  pitiable. 
His  name  was  still  respected.  His  factory  was  still 
running.  Whatever  his  liabilities,  he  still  had  some 
assets,  not  least  of  them  health  and  experience  and 
courage. 

But  where  had  his  courage  been  hiding  that  it  left 
185 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

him  whimpering  alone?  Was  he  a  little  girl  afraid 
of  the  dark,  or  was  he  a  man? 

There  were  still  men  who  would  lend  him  money 
or  time.  What  if  he  was  in  trouble?  Were  not  the 
merchant  princes  of  the  earth  sweating  blood  ?  There 
had  been  a  rich  men's  panic  before  the  poor  were 
reached.  Now  everybody  was  involved. 

After  all,  what  if  he  failed?  Who  had  not  failed? 
What  if  he  fell  bankrupt? — that  was  only  a  tumble 
down-stairs.  Could  he  not  pick  himself  up  and 
climb  again?  Some  of  the  biggest  industries  in  the 
world  had  passed  through  temporary  strain.  The 
sun  himself  went  into  eclipse. 

If  his  factory  had  to  close,  it  could  be  opened  again 
some  day.  Or  even  if  he  could  not  recover,  how  many 
better  men  than  he  had  failed?  To  be  crushed  by 
the  luck  of  things  was  no  crime.  There  was  a 
glory  of  defeat  as  well  as  of  victory. 

The  one  great  gleaming  truth  was  that  he  was 
still  alive,  still  in  the  ring.  He  was  not  dead  yet. 
He  was  not  going  to  die.  He  was  going  to  get  up 
and  win. 

There  was  no  shame  in  the  misfortunes  he  had 
had.  There  was  no  disgrace  in  the  fears  he  had 
bowed  to.  All  the  nations  and  all  the  men  in 
them  were  in  a  night  of  fear.  But  already  there 
was  a  change  of  feeling.  The  darker  the  hour,  the 
nearer  the  dawn.  The  worse  things  were,  the 
sooner  they  must  mend. 

People  had  been  too  prosperous;  the  world  had 
1 86 


AND   THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

played  the  spendthrift  and  gambled  too  high.  But 
economy  would  restore  the  balance  for  the  toilers. 
What  had  been  lost  would  soon  be  regained. 

Fate  could  not  down  America  yet.  And  he  was  an 
American.  What  was  it  "Jim"  Hill  had  said  to  the 
scare-mongers:  "The  man  who  sells  the  United 
States  short  is  a  damned  fool."  And  the  man  who 
sells  himself  short  is  a  damneder  fool. 

Thus  he  struggled  through  the  bad  weather  of  his 
soul.  The  clouds  that  had  gathered  and  roared 
and  shuttled  with  lightnings  had  emptied  their 
wrath,  and  the  earth  still  rolled.  The  mystery  of 
terror  was  subtly  altered  to  a  mystery  of  surety. 

Lying  in  the  dark,  motionless,  he  had  wrought 
out  the  miracle  of  meditation.  Within  the  senate 
chamber  of  his  mind  he  had  debated  and  pondered 
and  voted  confidence  in  himself  and  in  life. 

His  eyes,  still  open,  still  battling  for  light,  had 
found  none  yet.  The  universe  was  still  black.  He 
could  not  distinguish  sky  from  window,  nor  case- 
ment from  ceiling.  Yet  the  gloom  was  no  longer 
terrible.  The  universe  was  still  a  great  ship  rush- 
ing on,  but  he  was  no  longer  a  midget  in  a  little 
cockleshell  about  to  be  crushed.  He  was  a  passen- 
ger on  the  ship.  The  night  was  benevolent,  majestic, 
sonorous  with  music.  The  sea  was  glorious  and  the 
voyage  forward. 

And  now  that  his  heart  was  full  of  good  news,  he 
had  a  wild  desire  to  rush  home  with  it  to  her  who  was 

187 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

his  home.  How  often  he  had  left  her  in  the  morning 
after  a  wrangle,  and  hurried  back  to  her  at  night 
bearing  glad  tidings,  the  quarrel  forgotten  beyond  the 
need  of  any  treaty.  And  she  would  be  there  among 
their  children,  beaming  welcome  from  her  big  eyes. 

And  she  was  always  so  glad  when  he  was  glad. 
She  took  so  much  blame  on  herself;  though  how  was 
she  to  blame  for  herself?  Yet  she  took  no  credit  to 
herself  for  being  all  the  sweet  things  she  was.  She 
was  the  flowers  and  the  harvest,  and  the  cool,  amorous 
evening  after  the  hard  day  was  done.  And  he  was 
the  peevish,  whining,  swearing  imbecile  that  chose  a 
woman  for  wife  because  she  was  a  rose  and  then 
clenched  her  thorns  and  complained  because  she 
was  not  a  turnip. 

He  felt  a  longing  to  tell  her  how  false  his  croakings 
had  been  in  that  old  dead  time  so  long  ago  as  last 
night.  But  she  was  asleep.  And  she  needed  sleep. 
She  had  been  greatly  troubled  by  his  troubles. 
She  had  been  anxious  for  him  and  the  children. 
She  had  so  many  things  to  worry  over  that  never 
troubled  him.  She  had  wept  and  been  angry  be- 
cause she  could  not  make  him  understand.  Her 
very  wrath  was  a  way  of  crying:  "I  love  you!  You 
hurt  me!'* 

He  must  let  her  sleep.  Her  beauty  and  her 
graces  needed  sleep.  It  was  his  blessed  privilege 
to  guard  her  slumbers,  his  pride  to  house  her  well 
and  to  see  that  she  slept  in  fabrics  suited  to  the 
delicate  fabric  of  her  exquisite  body. 

188 


AND   THIS    IS    MARRIAGE 

But  if  only  she  might  chance  to  be  awake  that  he 
might  tell  her  how  sorry  he  was  that  he  had  been 
weak  and  wicked  enough  to  torment  her  with  his 
baseless  fears  and  his  unreasonable  ire.  At  least 
he  must  touch  her  with  tenderness.  Even  though  she 
slept,  he  must  give  her  the  benediction  of  one  light 
caress. 

He  put  his  hand  out  cautiously  toward  her.  He 
laid  his  fingers  gently  on  her  cheek.  How  beautiful 
it  was  even  in  the  dark!  But  it  was  wet!  with  tears! 
Suddenly  her  little  invisible  fingers  closed  upon  his 
hand  like  grape  tendrils. 

But  this  did  not  prove  her  awake.  So  habited 
they  were  to  each  other  that  even  in  their  sleep  their 
bodies  gave  or  answered  such  endearments. 

He  waited  till  his  loneliness  for  her  was  unendur- 
able, then  he  breathed,  softly: 

"Are  you  asleep,  honey?" 

For  answer  she  whirled  into  his  bosom  and 
clenched  him  in  her  arms  and  wept — in  whispers 
lest  the  children  hear.  He  petted  her  tenderly  and 
kissed  her  hair  and  her  eyelids  and  murmured: 

"Did  I  wake  you,  honey?" 

"No,  no!"  she  sobbed.  "I've  been  awake  for 
hours." 

"But  you  didn't  move!" 

"I  was  afraid  to  waken  you.  You  need  your  rest 
so  much.  I've  been  thinking  how  hard  you  work, 
how  good  you  are.  I'm  so  ashamed  of  myself 
for-" 

189 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"But  it  was  all  my  fault,  honey." 

"Oh  no,  no,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 

He  let  her  have  the  last  word;  for  an  enormous 
contentedness  filled  his  heart.  He  drew  the  covers 
about  her  shoulder  and  held  her  close  and  breathed 
deep  of  the  companionship  of  the  soul  he  had 
chosen.  He  breathed  so  deeply  that  his  head 
drooped  over  hers,  his  cheek  upon  her  hair.  The 
night  seemed  to  bend  above  them  and  mother  them 
and  say  to  them,  "Hush!  hush!  and  sleep!" 

There  are  many  raptures  in  the  world,  and  count- 
less beautiful  moments,  and  not  the  least  of  them  is 
this  solemn  marriage  in  sleep  of  the  man  and  woman 
whose  days  are  filled  with  cares,  and  under  whose 
roof  at  night  children  and  servants  slumber  aloof 
secure. 

While  these  two  troubled  spirits  found  repose  and 
renewal,  locked  each  in  the  other's  arms,  the  black- 
ness was  gradually  withdrawn  from  the  air.  In 
the  sky  there  came  a  pallor  that  grew  to  a  twilight 
and  became  a  radiance  and  a  splendor.  And  night 
was  day.  It  would  soon  be  time  for  the  father  to 
rise  and  go  forth  to  his  work,  and  for  the  mother  to 
rise  to  the  offices  of  the  home. 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 


IN  the  tame  little  town  of  Hillsdale  he  seemed  the 
tamest  thing  of  all,  Will  Rudd — especially  ap- 
propriate to  a  kneeling  trade,  a  shoe  clerk  by  election. 
He  bent  the  pregnant  hinges  to  anybody  soever  that 
entered  the  shop,  with  its  ingenious  rebus  on  the 
sign-board : 


CLftYKITTREDGE 


Emporium 
Nobby  Footwear 


He  not  only  untied  the  stilted  Oxfords  or  but- 
toned in  the  arching  insteps  of  those  who  sat  in  the 
"Ladies'  and  Misses'  Dept.,"  which  was  the  other 
side  of  the  double-backed  bench  whose  obverse  was 

191 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

the  "Gents'  Dept.,"  but  also  he  took  upon  the  glisten- 
ing surface  of  his  trousers  the  muddy  soles  of  mer- 
chants, the  clay-bronzed  brogans  of  hired  men,  the 
cowhide  toboggans  of  teamsters,  and  the  brass-toed, 
red-kneed  boots  of  little  boys  ecstatic  in  their  first 
feel  of  big  leather. 

Rudd  was  a  shoe  clerk  to  be  trusted.  He  never 
revealed  to  a  soul  that  Miss  Clara  Lommel  wore 
shoes  two  sizes  too  small,  and  when  she  bit  her  lip 
and  blenched  with  agony  as  he  pried  her  heel  into 
the  protesting  dongola,  he  seemed  not  to  notice  that 
she  was  no  Cinderella. 

And  one  day,  when  it  was  too  late,  and  Miss  Lucy 
Posnett,  whose  people  lived  in  the  big  brick  mansard, 
realized  that  she  had  a  hole  in  her  stocking,  what  did 
Rudd  do?  Why,  he  never  let  on. 

Stanch  Methodist  that  he  was,  William  Rudd 
stifled  in  petto  the  fact  that  the  United  Presbyterian 
parson's  wife  was  vain  and  bought  little,  soft  black 
kids  with  the  Cuban  heel  and  a  patent-leather  tip 
to  the  opera  toe!  The  United  Presbyterian  parson 
himself  had  salved  his  own  vanity  by  saying  that 
shoes  show  so  plainly  on  the  pulpit,  and  it  was  better 
to  buy  them  a  trifle  too  small  than  a  trifle  too  large, 
but — umm! — er,  hadn't  you  better  put  in  a  little 
more  of  that  powder,  Mr.  Rudd  ?  I  have  on — whew! 
— unusually  thick  socks  to-day. 

Clay  Kittredge,  Rudd's  employer,  valued  him, 
secretly,  as  a  man  who  brought  in  customers  and 
sold  them  goods.  But  he  never  mentioned  this  to 

192 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

his  clerk  lest  Rudd  be  tempted  to  the  sin  of  vanity, 
and  incidentally  to  demanding  an  increase  in  that 
salary  which  had  remained  the  same  since  he  had 
been  promoted  from  delivery-boy. 

Kittredge  found  that  Rudd  kept  his  secrets  as  he 
kept  everybody's  else.  Professing  church  member  as 
he  was,  Rudd  earnestly  palmed  off  shopworn  stock 
for  fresh  invoices,  declared  that  the  obsolete  Pic- 
cadillies  which  Kittredge  had  snapped  up  from  a 
bankrupt  sale  were  worn  on  all  the  best  feet  on 
Fifth  Avenoo,  and  blandly  substituted  "just  as 
good"  for  advertised  wares  that  Kittredge  did  not 
carry. 

Besides,  when  no  customer  was  in  the  shop  he  spent 
the  time  at  the  back  window,  doctoring  tags — as  the 
King  of  France  negotiated  the  hill — by  marking  up 
prices,  then  marking  them  down. 

But  when  he  took  his  hat  from  the  peg  and  set  it 
on  his  head,  he  put  on  his  private  conscience. 
Whatever  else  he  did,  he  never  lied  or  cheated  to  his 
own  advantage. 

And  so  everybody  in  town  liked  William  Rudd, 
and  nobody  admired  him.  He  was  treated  with  the 
affectionate  contempt  of  an  old  family  servant. 
But  he  had  his  ambitions  and  great  ones,  ambitions 
that  reached  past  himself  into  the  future  of  another 
generation.  He  felt  the  thrill  that  stirs  the  acorn, 
fallen  into  the  ground  and  hidden  there,  but  destined 
to  father  an  oak.  His  was  the  ambition  beyond 
ambition  that  glorifies  the  seed  in  the  loam  and  en- 

193 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

nobles  the  roots  of  trees  thrusting  themselves  down- 
ward and  gripping  obscurity  in  order  that  trunks  and 
branches,  flowers  and  fruits,  pods  and  cones,  may 
flourish  aloft. 

Eventually  old  Clay  Kittredge  died,  and  the  son 
chopped  the  "Jr."  curlicue  from  the  end  of  his 
name  and  began  a  new  regime.  The  old  Kittredge 
had  sought  only  his  own  aggrandizement,  and  his 
son  was  his  son.  The  new  Clay  Kittredge  had  gone 
to  public  school  with  Rudd  and  they  continued  to 
be  "Clay"  and  "Will"  to  each  other;  no  one  would 
ever  have  called  Rudd  by  so  demonstrative  a  name 
as  "Bill." 

When  Clay  second  stepped  into  his  father's  boots 
— and  shoes — he  began  to  enlarge  the  business,  hop- 
ing to  efface  his  father's  achievements  by  his  own. 
The  shop  gradually  expanded  to  a  department  store 
for  covering  all  portions  of  the  anatomy  and  supply- 
ing inner  wants  as  well. 

Rudd  was  so  overjoyed  at  not  being  uprooted  and 
flung  aside  to  die  that  he  never  observed  the  shrewd 
irony  of  Kittredge's  phrase,  "You  may  remain,  Will, 
with  no  reduction  of  salary." 

To  have  lost  his  humble  position  would  have 
frustrated  his  dream,  for  he  was  doing  his  best  to 
build  for  himself  and  for  Her  a  home  where  they 
could  fulfil  their  destinies.  He  cherished  no  hope, 
hardly  even  a  desire,  to  be  a  great  or  rich  man  him- 
self. He  was  one  of  the  nest-weavers,  the  cave- 
burrowers,  the  home-makers,  who  prepare  the  way 

194 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

for  the  greater  than  themselves  who  shall  spring 
from  themselves. 

He  was  of  those  who  become  the  unknown  fa- 
thers of  great  men.  And  so,  on  a  salary  that  would 
have  meant  penury  to  a  man  of  self-seeking  tastes, 
he  managed  to  save  always  the  major  part  of  his 
earning.  At  the  bank  he  was  a  modest  but  regular 
visitor  to  the  receiving-teller,  and  almost  a  total 
stranger  to  the  paying-teller. 

His  wildest  dissipation  being  a  second  pipeful 
of  tobacco  before  he  went  to  bed — or  "retired,"  as 
he  would  more  gently  have  said  it — he  eventually 
heaped  up  enough  money  and  courage  to  ask  Martha 
Kellogg  to  marry  him.  Martha,  who  was  the  plain- 
est woman  in  plain  Hillsdale,  accepted  William,  and 
they  were  made  one  by  the  parson.  The  wedding 
was  accounted  "plain"  even  in  Hillsdale. 

The  groomy  bridegroom  and  the  unbridy  bride 
spent  together  all  the  time  that  Rudd  could  spare 
from  the  store.  He  bought  for  her  a  little  frame 
house  with  a  porch  about  as  big  as  an  upper  berth, 
a  patch  of  grass  with  a  path  through  it  to  the  back 
door,  some  hollyhocks  of  startling  color,  and  a 
highly  unimportant  woodshed.  It  spelled  HOME  to 
them,  and  they  were  as  happy  as  people  usually  are. 
He  did  all  he  could  to  please  her.  At  her  desire  he 
even  gave  up  his  pipe  without  missing  it — much. 

Mrs.  Martha  Rudd  was  an  ambitious  woman,  or 
at  least  restless  and  discontented.  Having  escaped 
her  supreme  horror,  that  of  being  an  old  maid, 

14  195 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

she  began  to  grow  ambitious  for  her  husband.  She 
nagged  him  for  a  while  about  his  plodding  ways,  the 
things  that  satisfied  him,  the  salary  he  endured. 
But  it  did  no  good.  Will  Rudd  was  never  meant 
to  put  boots  and  spurs  on  his  own  feet  and  splash 
around  in  gore.  He  was  for  carpet  slippers,  round- 
toed  shoes,  and  on  wet  days,  rubbers;  on  slushy  days 
he  even  descended  to  what  he  called  "ar'tics." 

Not  understanding  the  true  majesty  of  her  hus- 
band's long-distance  dreams,  and  baffled  by  his 
unresponse  to  her  ambitions  for  him,  Martha  grew 
ambitious  for  the  child  that  was  coming.  She  grew 
frantically,  fantastically  ambitious.  Here  was  some- 
thing William  Rudd  could  respond  to.  He  could  be 
ambitious  as  Caesar — but  not  for  himself.  He  was  a 
groundling,  but  his  son  should  climb. 

Husband  and  wife  spent  evenings  and  evenings 
debating  the  future  of  the  child.  They  never  agreed 
on  the  name — or  the  alternative  names.  For  it  is 
advisable  to  have  two  ready  for  any  emergency.  But 
the  future  was  rosy.  They  were  unanimous  on  that 
— President  of  the  United  States,  mebbe;  or  at  least 
the  President's  wife. 

Mrs.  Rudd,  who  occasionally  read  the  continued 
stories  in  the  evening  paper,  had  happened  on  a  hero 
named  "Eric."  She  favored  that  name — or  Gwen- 
dolynne  (with  a  "y"),  as  the  case  might  be.  In  any 
event,  the  child's  future  was  so  glowing  that  it 
warmed  Mrs.  Rudd  to  asking  one  evening,  forgetful 
of  her  earlier  edict: 

196 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

"Why  don't  you  smoke  your  pipe  any  more, 
Will?" 

"I'd  kind  o'  got  out  of  the  habit,  Marthy,"  he  said, 
and  added,  hastily,  "but  I  guess  I'll  git  back  in." 

Thereafter  they  sat  of  evenings  by  the  lamp,  he 
smoking,  she  sewing  things — holding  them  up  now 
and  then  for  him  to  see.  They  looked  almost  too 
small  to  be  convincing,  until  he  brought  home  from 
the  store  a  pair  of  shoes — "the  smallest  size  made, 
Marthy,  too  small  for  some  of  the  dolls  you  see  over 
at  Bostwick's." 

It  was  the  golden  period  of  his  life.  Rudd  never 
sold  shoes  so  well.  People  could  hardly  resist  his 
high  spirits.  Anticipation  is  a  great  thing — it  is  all 
that  some  people  get. 

To  be  a  successful  shoe  clerk  one  must  acquire  the 
patience  of  Job  without  his  gift  of  complaint,  and 
Rudd  was  thoroughly  schooled.  So  he  waited  with 
a  hope-lit  serenity  the  preamble  to  the  arrival  of  his 
— her — their  child. 

And  then  fate,  which  had  previously  been  content 
with  denying  him  comforts  and  keeping  him  from 
luxuries,  dealt  him  a  blow  in  the  face,  smote  him  on 
his  patient  mouth.  The  doctor  told  him  that  the 
little  body  of  his  son  had  been  born  still.  After 
that  it  was  rather  a  stupor  of  despair  than  courage 
that  carried  him  through  the  vain  struggle  for  life 
of  the  worn-out  housewife  who  became  only  almost  a 
mother.  It  seemed  merely  the  logical  completion 
of  the  world's  cruelty  when  the  doctor  laid  a  heavy 

197 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

hand  on  his  shoulder  and  walked  out  of  the  door, 
without  leaving  any  prescription  to  fill.  Rudd  stood 
like  a  wooden  Indian,  too  dazed  to  understand  or  to 
feel.  He  opened  the  door  to  the  undertaker  and 
waited  outside  the  room,  just  twiddling  his  fingers 
and  wondering.  His  world  had  come  to  an  end 
and  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

At  the  church,  the  offices  of  the  parson,  and  the 
soprano's  voice  from  behind  the  flowers,  singing 
"Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  for  Me" — Marthy's  favorite 
hymn — brought  the  tears  trickling,  but  he  could  not 
believe  that  what  had  happened  had  happened.  He 
got  through  the  melancholy  honor  of  riding  in  the 
first  hack  in  the  shabby  pageant,  though  the  town 
looked  strange  from  that  window.  He  shivered 
stupidly  at  the  first  sight  of  the  trench  in  the  turf 
which  was  to  be  the  new  lodging  of  his  family.  He 
kept  as  quiet  as  any  of  the  group  among  the  mounds 
while  the  bareheaded  preacher  finished  his  part. 

He  was  too  numb  with  incredulity  to  find  any 
expression  until  he  heard  that  awfulest  sound  that 
ever  grates  the  human  ear — the  first  shovelful  of 
clods  rattling  on  a  coffin.  Then  he  understood — 
then  he  woke.  When  he  saw  the  muddy  spade  spill 
dirt  hideously  above  her  lips,  her  cheeks,  her  brow, 
and  the  little  bundle  of  futile  flesh  she  cuddled  with 
a  rigid  arm  to  a  breast  of  ice — then  a  cry  like  the 
shriek  of  a  falling  tree  split  his  throat  and  he  dropped 
into  the  grave,  sprawling  across  the  casket,  beating 
on  its  denying  door,  and  sobbing: 

198 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

"You  mustn't  go  alone,  Marthy.  I  won't  let  you 
two  go  all  by  yourselves.  It's  so  fur  and  so  dark. 
I  can't  live  without  you  and  the — the  baby.  Wait! 
Wait!" 

They  dragged  him  out,  and  the  shovels  concluded 
their  venerable  task.  He  was  sobbing  too  loudly 
to  hear  them,  and  the  parson  was  holding  him  in  his 
arms  and  patting  his  back  and  saying  "'Shh!  'Shh!" 
as  if  he  were  a  child  afraid  of  the  dark. 

The  sparse  company  that  had  gathered  to  pay  the 
last  devoir  to  the  unimportant  woman  in  the  box 
in  the  ditch  felt,  most  of  all,  amazement  at  such  an 
unexpected  outburst  from  so  expectable  a  man  as 
William  Rudd.  There  was  much  talk  about  it  as 
the  horses  galloped  home,  much  talk  in  every  car- 
riage except  his  and  the  one  that  had  been  hers. 

Up  to  this,  the  neighbors  had  taken  the  whole 
affair  with  that  splendid  philosophy  neighbors  apply 
to  other  people's  woes.  Mrs.  Budd  Granger  had 
said  to  Mrs.  Ad.  Peck  when  they  met  in  Bostwick's 
dry-goods  store,  at  the  linen  counter: 

"Too  bad  about  Martha  Rudd,  isn't  it?  Plain 
little  body,  but  nice.  Meant  well.  Went  to  church 
regular.  Yes,  it's  too  bad.  I  don't  think  they 
ought  to  put  off  the  strawb'ry  fest'val,  though,  just 
for  that,  do  you?  Never  would  be  any  fun  if  we 
stopped  for  every  funeral,  would  there?  Besides, 
the  strawb'ry  fest'val's  for  charity,  isn't  it?" 

The  strawberry  festival  was  not  put  off  and  the 
town  paper  said  that  "a  pleasant  time  was  had  by 

199 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

all."  Most  of  the  talk  was  about  Will  Rudd.  The 
quiet  shoe  clerk  had  provided  the  town  with  an 
alarm,  an  astonishment.  He  was  most  astounded 
of  all.  As  he  rode  back  to  the  frame  house  in  the 
swaying  carriage  he  absolutely  could  not  believe 
that  such  hopes,  such  plans,  could  be  shattered  with 
such  wanton,  wasteful  cruelty.  That  he  should  have 
loved,  married,  and  begotten,  and  that  the  new-made 
mother  and  the  new-born  child  should  be  struck  dead, 
nullified,  returned  to  clay — such  things  were  too 
foolish,  too  spendthrift,  to  believe. 

It  is  strange  that  people  do  not  get  used  to  death. 
It  has  come  to  nearly  every  being  anybody  has  ever 
heard  of;  and  whom  it  has  not  yet  reached,  it  will. 
Every  one  of  the  two  billions  of  us  on  earth  to-day 
expects  it  to  come  to  him,  and  (if  he  have  them)  to 
his  son,  his  daughter,  his  man-servant,  his  maid- 
servant, his  ox,  his  ass,  the  stranger  within  his  gates, 
the  weeds  by  the  road.  Kittens  and  kingdoms, 
potato-bugs,  plants,  and  planets — all  are  on  the 
visiting-list. 

Death  is  the  one  expectation  that  never  fails  to 
arrive.  But  it  comes  always  as  a  new  thing,  an 
unheard-of  thing,  a  miracle.  It  is  the  commonest 
word  in  the  lexicon,  yet  it  always  reads  as  a  hapax 
legomenon.  It  is  like  spring,  though  so  unlike.  For 
who  ever  believed  that  May  would  emerge  from  March 
this  year  ?  And  who  ever  remembers  that  violets  were 
suddenly  abroad  on  the  hills  last  April,  too? 

William  Rudd  ought  to  have  known  better.  In 

200 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

a  town  where  funerals  were  social  events  dangerously 
near  to  diversion,  he  had  been  unusually  frequent 
at  them.  For  he  belonged  to  the  local  chapter  of 
the  Knights  of  Pythias,  and  when  a  fellow-member 
in  good  standing  was  forced  to  resign,  William  Rudd 
donned  his  black  suit,  his  odd-looking  cocked  hat 
with  the  plume,  and  the  anachronous  sword,  which 
he  carried  as  one  would  expect  a  shoe  clerk  to  carry 
a  sword.  The  man  in  the  hearse  ahead  went  to  no 
further  funerals,  stopped  paying  his  dues,  made  no 
more  noise  at  the  bowling-alley,  and  ceased  to  dent 
his  pew  cushion.  Somebody  got  his  job  at  once  and, 
after  a  decent  time,  somebody  else  probably  got  his 
wife.  The  man  became  a  remembrance,  if  that. 

Rudd  had  long  realized  that  people  eventually 
become  dead;  but  he  had  never  realized  death.  He 
had  been  an  oblivious  child  when  his  mother  and 
father  had  taken  the  long  trip  whose  tickets  read 
but  one  way,  and  had  left  him  to  the  grudging  care 
of  an  uncle  with  a  large  enough  family. 

And  now  his  own  family  was  obliterated.  He 
was  again  a  single  man,  that  familiar  thing  called  a 
widower.  He  could  not  accept  it  as  a  fact.  He 
denied  his  eyes.  He  was  as  incredulous  as  a  man 
who  sees  a  magician  play  some  old  vanishing  trick. 
He  had  seen  it,  but  he  could  not  understand  it 
enough  to  believe  it.  When  the  hack  left  him  at  his 
house  he  found  it  emptier  than  he  could  have 
imagined  a  house  could  be.  Marthy  was  not  on  the 
porch,  or  in  the  settin'-room,  the  dinin'-room,  the 

201 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

kitchen,  or  anywhere  up-stairs.  The  bed  was  empty, 
the  stove  cold.  The  lamp  had  not  been  filled. 
The  cruse  of  his  life  was  dry,  the  silver  cord  loosened, 
the  pitcher  broken  at  the  fountain,  the  wheel  broken 
at  the  cistern. 

As  he  stumbled  about  filling  the  lamp,  and  covering 
his  hands  with  kerosene,  he  wondered  what  he  should 
do  in  those  long  hours  between  the  closing  of  the  shoe- 
shop  of  evenings  and  its  opening  of  mornings.  Men 
behave  differently  in  this  recurring  situation.  Some 
take  to  drink,  or  return  to  it.  Rudd  did  not  like 
liquor;  at  least  he  did  not  think  he  would  have 
liked  it  if  he  had  ever  tasted  it.  Some  take  to 
gambling.  Rudd  did  not  know  big  casino  from 
little,  though  he  had  once  almost  acquired  a  passion 
for  checkers — the  give-away  game.  Some  submerge 
themselves  in  money-getting.  Rudd  would  not  have 
given  up  the  serene  certainty  of  his  little  salary  for  a 
speculator's  chance  to  clean  up  a  million,  or  lose  his 
margin. 

If  only  the  child  had  lived,  he  should  have  had  an 
industry,  an  ambition,  a  use. 

Widowers  have  occasionally  hunted  consolation 
with  the  same  sex  that  sent  them  grief.  Rudd  had 
never  known  any  woman  in  town  as  well  as  he  had 
known  Martha,  and  it  had  taken  him  years  to  find 
courage  to  propose  to  her.  The  thought  of  approach- 
ing any  other  woman  with  intimate  intention  gave 
him  an  ague  sweat. 

And  how  was  he  to  think  of  taking  another  wife  ? 

202 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

Even  if  he  had  not  been  so  confounded  with  grief 
for  his  helpmeet  as  to  believe  her  the  only  woman  on 
earth  for  him,  how  could  he  have  accosted  another 
woman  when  he  had  only  debts  for  a  dowry? 

Death  is  an  expensive  thing  in  every  phase.  The 
event  that  robbed  Rudd  of  his  wife,  his  child,  his 
hope,  had  taken  also  his  companion,  his  cook,  his 
chambermaid,  his  washerwoman,  the  mender  of  his 
things;  and  in  their  place  had  left  an  appalling 
monument  of  bills.  The  only  people  he  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  owe  money  to  were  the  gruesome 
committee  that  brought  him  his  grief;  the  doctor,  the 
druggist,  the  casket-maker,  the  sexton,  and  the  dealer 
in  the  unreal  estate  who  sold  the  tiny  lots  in  the  sad 
little  town. 

His  soul  was  too  bruised  to  grope  its  way  about, 
but  instinct  told  him  that  bills  must  be  paid.  In- 
stinct automatically  set  him  to  work  clearing  up  his 
accounts.  For  their  sakes  he  devoted  himself  to  a 
stricter  economy  than  ever.  He  engaged  meals  at 
Mrs.  Judd's  boarding-house.  He  resolved  even  to 
rent  his  home.  But,  mercifully,  there  was  no  one 
in  town  to  take  the  place.  In  economy's  name,  too, 
he  put  away  his  pipe — for  one  horrible  evening. 
The  next  day  he  remembered  how  Marthy  had  sung 
out,  "Why  don't  you  smoke  your  pipe  any  more, 
Will?"  and  he  had  answered:  "I'd  kind  o'  got  out 
of  the  habit,  Marthy,  but  I  guess  I'll  git  back  in." 
And  Lordy,  how  she  laughed!  The  laughter  of  the 
dead — '-it  made  a  lonely  echo  in  the  house. 

203 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

Gradually  he  found,  as  so  many  dismal  castaways 
have  found,  that  there  is  a  mystic  companionship  in 
that  weed  which  has  come  out  of  the  vegetable  world, 
as  the  dog  from  among  the  animals,  to  make  fellow- 
ship with  man.  Rudd  and  his  pipe  were  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  his  man  Friday  on  the  desert  island  of 
loneliness.  They  stared  out  to  sea;  and  imagined. 

Remembering  how  Martha  and  he  used  to  dream 
about  the  child,  in  the  tobacco  twilight,  and  how 
they  planned  his  future,  Rudd's  soul  learned  to 
follow  the  pipe  smoke  out  from  the  porch,  over  the 
fence  and  to  disappear  beyond  the  horizons  of  the 
town  and  the  sharp  definition  of  the  graveyard 
fence.  He  became  addicted  to  dreams,  habituated 
to  dealing  in  futurities  that  could  never  come  to 
pass. 

Being  his  only  luxury  on  earth,  by  and  by  they 
became  his  necessities,  realities  more  concrete  than 
the  shoes  he  sold  or  the  board  walk  he  plodded  to  and 
from  his  store. 

One  Sunday  Rudd  was  present  at  church  when  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Budd  Granger  brought  their  fourth  baby 
forward  to  be  christened.  The  infant  bawled  and 
choked  and  kicked  its  safety-pins  loose.  Rudd  was 
sure  that  Eric  never  would  have  misbehaved  like 
that.  Yet  Eric  had  been  denied  the  sacred  rite. 

This  reminded  Rudd  how  many  learned  theologians 
had  proved  by  rigid  logic  that  unbaptized  babies  are 
damned  forever.  He  spent  days  of  horror  at  the 
frightful  possibility,  and  nights  of  infernal  travel 

204 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

across  gridirons  where  babies  flung  their  blistered 
hands  in  vain  appeal  to  far-off  mothers.  He  could 
not  get  it  from  his  mind  until,  one  evening,  his  pipe 
persuaded  him  to  erect  a  font  in  the  temple  of  his 
imagination. 

He  mused  through  all  the  ritual,  and  the  little 
frame  house  seemed  to  thrill  as  the  vague  preacher 
enounced  the  sonorous  phrase: 

"I  baptize  thee  Eric — in  the  name  of  the  Father, 
and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Marthy  was  there,  too,  of  course,  but  it  was  the 
father  that  held  the  baby.  And  the  child  did  not 
wince  when  the  pastor's  fingers  moistened  the  tiny 
brow.  He  just  clasped  a  geranium-petal  hand  round 
Rudd's  thumb  and  stared  at  the  sacrament  with  eyes 
of  more  than  mortal  understanding. 

The  very  next  day  Mrs.  Ad.  Peck  walked  into  the 
store,  proud  as  a  peahen.  She  wanted  shoes  for  her 
baby.  The  soles  of  the  old  pair  were  intact,  but  the 
stubby  toes  were  protruding. 

"He  crawls  all  over  the  house,  Mr.  Rudd!  And 
he  cut  his  first  tooth  to-day,  too.  Just  look  at  it. 
Ain't  it  a  beauty  ?" 

In  her  insensate  conceit  she  pried  the  child's 
mouth  apart  as  if  he  were  a  pony,  to  disclose  the 
minute  peak  of  ivory.  It  was  nothing  to  make 
such  a  fuss  over,  Rudd  thought,  though  he  praised 
it  as  if  it  were  a  snow-capped  Fuji-yama. 

That  night  Eric  cut  two  teeth.  And  Marthy 
nearly  laughed  her  head  off. 

205 


IN    A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Rudd  did  not  talk  aloud  to  the  family  he  had 
revened  from  the  grave.  He  had  no  occult  persua- 
sions. He  just  sat  in  his  rocker  and  smoked  hard 
and  imagined  hard.  He  imagined  the  lives  of  his 
family  not  only  as  they  might  have  been,  but  as  they 
ought  to  have  been.  He  was  like  a  spectator  at  a 
play,  mingling  belief  and  make-belief  inextricably, 
knowing  it  all  untrue,  yet  weeping,  laughing,  thrill- 
ing as  if  it  were  the  very  image  of  fact. 

All  mothers  and  some  fathers  have  a  sad  little 
calendar  in  their  hearts'  cupboards  where  they  keep 
track  of  the  things  that  might  have  been.  "Octo- 
ber fifth,"  they  muse.  "Why,  it's  Ned's  birthday! 
He'd  have  been  twenty-one  to-day  if  he'd  lived. 
He'd  have  voted  this  year.  December  twenty-third? 
Alice  would  have  been  coming  home  from  boarding- 
school  to-day  if —  July  fourth?  Humph!  How 
Harry  loved  the  fireworks!  But  he'd  be  a  Senator 
now  and  invited  to  his  home  town  to  make  a  speech 
in  the  park  to-day  if—  If!  If! 

Everybody  must  keep  some  such  if-almanac,  some 
such  diary  of  prayers  denied.  That  was  all  Rudd 
did;  only  he  wrote  it  up  every  evening.  He  would 
take  from  the  lavender  where  he  kept  them  the  little 
things  Martha  had  sewed  for  the  child  and  the  little 
shoes  he  had  bought.  The  warm  body  had  never 
wriggled  and  laughed  in  the  tiny  trousseau,  the  little 
shoes  had  never  housed  pink  toes,  but  they  helped 
him  to  pretend  until  they  became  to  him  things  out- 
grown by  a  living,  growing  child.  He  cherished 

206 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

them  as  all  parents  cherish  the  first  shoes  and  the 
first  linens  and  woolens  of  their  young. 

Marthy  and  Eric  Rudd  lived  just  behind  the 
diaphanous  curtain  of  the  pipe  smoke,  or  in  the 
nooks  of  the  twilight  shadow,  or  in  the  heart  of  the 
settin'-room  stove. 

The  frame  house  had  no  fireplace,  and  in  its  lieu 
he  was  wont  to  open  the  door  of  the  wood-stove, 
lean  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  and  gaze  into  the 
creamy  core  of  the  glow  where  his  people  moved  un- 
harmed and  radiant,  like  the  three  youths  conversing 
in  the  fiery  furnace. 

In  the  brief  period  allotted  them  before  bedtime 
they  must  needs  live  fast.  The  boy  grew  at  an 
extraordinary  rate  and  in  an  extraordinary  manner, 
for  sometimes  Rudd  performed  for  him  that  feat 
which  God  Himself  seems  not  to  achieve  in  His 
world;  he  turned  back  time  and  brought  on  yesterday 
again,  or  reverted  the  year  before  last,  as  a  reaper 
may  pause  and  return  to  glean  some  sheaf  over- 
looked before. 

For  instance,  Eric  was  already  a  strapping  lad  of 
seven  spinning  through  school  at  a  rate  that  would 
have  given  brain  fever  to  a  less-gifted  youngster, 
when,  one  day,  Farmer  Stebbins  came  to  the  Em- 
porium with  a  four-year-old  chub  of  a  son  who  ran 
in  ahead  of  his  father,  kicked  his  shoes  in  opposite 
directions  and  yelled,  to  the  great  dismay  of  an  old 
maid  in  the  "Ladies'  and  Misses'  Dept. ": 

"Hay,  mister,  gimme  pair  boots  'ith  brass  toes!" 
207 


IN   A   LITTLE    TOWN 

The  father,  after  a  formulaic  pretense  of  reproving 
the  lad,  explained: 

"We'll  have  to  excuse  him,  Rudd;  it's  his  first  pair 
of  boots." 

Rudd's  heart  was  sore  within  him,  and  he  was 
oppressed  with  guilt.  He  had  never  bought  Eric 
his  first  pair  of  brass-toed  boots!  And  he  a  shoe 
clerk! 

So  that  night  Eric  had  to  be  reduced  several  years, 
brought  out  of  school,  and  taken  to  St.  Louis.  Rudd 
knew  what  an  epoch-making  event  this  was,  and  he 
wanted  Eric  to  select  from  a  larger  stock  than  the 
meager  and  out-of-date  supply  of  Kittredge's  Em- 
porium— though  this  admission  was  only  for  Rudd's 
own  family.  The  thumb-screw  could  not  have  wrung 
it  from  him  for  the  public. 

There  was  a  similar  mix-up  about  Eric's  first  long 
trousers  which  Rudd  likewise  overlooked.  He  ac- 
complished the  Irish  miracle  of  the  tight  boots. 
Eric  had  worn  his  breeches  a  long  while  before  he 
put  them  on  for  the  first  time. 

To  the  outer  knowledge  of  the  stranger  or  the 
neighbor,  William  Rudd's  employer  had  all  the  good 
luck  that  was  coming  to  him,  and  all  of  Rudd's  be- 
sides. They  were  antitheses  at  every  point. 

Where  Rudd  was  without  ambition,  importance, 
family,  or  funds,  Kittredge  was  the  richest  man  in 
town,  the  man  of  most  impressive  family,  and  easily 
the  leading  citizen.  People  began  to  talk  him  up 
for  Congressman,  maybe  for  Senator.  He  had  held 

208 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

all  the  other  conspicuous  offices  in  his  church,  his 
bank,  his  county.  You  could  hardly  say  that  he  had 
ever  run  for  any  office;  he  had  just  walked  up  and 
taken  it. 

Yet  Rudd  did  not  envy  him  his  record  or  his 
family.  Clay  Kittredge  had  children,  real  children. 
The  cemetery  lodged  none  of  them.  Yet  one  of  the 
girls  or  boys  was  always  ill  or  in  trouble  with  some- 
body; Mrs.  Kittredge  was  forever  cautioning  her 
children  not  to  play  with  Mrs.  So-and-so's  children 
and  Mrs.  So-and-so  would  return  the  compliment. 
The  town  was  fairly  torn  up  with  these  nursery 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline  wars. 

Rudd  compared  the  wickednesses  of  other  people's 
children  with  the  perfections  of  Eric.  Sometimes  his 
evil  genius  whispered  a  bitter  thought  that  if  Eric 
had  lived  to  enter  the  world  this  side  of  the  tobacco 
smoke,  he,  too,  might  have  been  a  complete  scoundrel 
in  knee-breeches,  instead  of  the  clean-hearted,  clear- 
skinned,  studious,  truthful  little  gentleman  of  light 
and  laughter  and  love  that  he  was.  But  Rudd  ban- 
ished the  thought. 

Eric  was  never  ill,  or  only  ill  enough  at  times  to 
give  the  parents  a  little  of  the  rapture  of  anxiety 
and  of  sitting  by  his  bedside  holding  his  hand  and 
brushing  his  hair  back  from  a  hot  forehead.  Eric 
never  was  impolite,  or  cruel  to  an  animal,  or  impu- 
dent to  a  teacher,  or  backward  in  a  class. 

And  Rudd's  wife  differed  from  Kittredge's  wife 
and  wives  in  general — and  indeed  from  the  old 

209 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Martha  herself — in  staying  young  and  growing  more 
and  more  beautiful.  The  old  Martha  had  been  too 
shy  and  too  cognizant  of  the  truth  ever  to  face  a 
camera;  and  Rudd  often  regretted  that  he  owned  not 
even  a  bridal  photograph  such  as  the  other  respect- 
able married  folks  of  Hillsdale  had  on  the  wall,  or  in 
a  crayon  enlargement  on  an  uneasy  easel.  He  had 
no  likeness  of  Martha  except  that  in  his  heart.  But 
thereby  his  fancy  was  unshackled  and  he  was  en- 
abled to  imagine  her  sweeter,  fairer,  every  day. 

It  was  the  boy  alone  that  grew;  the  mother,  having 
become  perfect,  remained  stationary  in  charm  like 
the  blessed  Greeks  in  the  asphodel-fields  of  Hades. 

About  the  time  Eric  Rudd  outgrew  the  public 
schools  of  Hillsdale  and  graduated  from  the  high 
school  with  a  wonderful  oration  of  his  own  writing 
called  "Night  Brings  Out  the  Stars,"  Kittredge  an- 
nounced that  his  eldest  son  would  go  to  Harvard  in 
the  fall.  Rudd  determined  that  Eric  should  go  to 
Yale.  He  even  sent  for  catalogues.  Rudd  was  ap- 
palled to  see  how  much  a  person  had  to  know  before 
he  could  even  get  into  college.  And  then,  this 
nearly  omniscient  intellect  was  called  a  Freshman! 

The  prices  of  rooms,  of  meals,  of  books,  of  extra 
fees,  the  estimated  allowances  for  clothing  and 
spending-money  dazed  the  poor  shoe  clerk  and 
nearly  sent  Eric  into  business.  But,  fortunately,  the 
brier  pipe  came  to  the  rescue  with  an  unexpected 
legacy  from  an  unsuspected  uncle. 

The  four  years  of  college  life  were  imagined  with 

2IO 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN 

a  good  deal  of  elision  and  an  amount  of  guesswork 
that  would  have  amused  a  janitor.  But  Rudd  and 
Martha  were  chiefly  interested  in  the  boy's  vacations 
at  home,  and  their  own  trips  to  New  Haven,  and  the 
letters  of  approval  from  the  professors. 

Eric  had  an  athletic  career  seldom  equaled  since 
the  days  of  Hercules.  For  Eric  was  a  champion  ten- 
nis-player, hockey-player,  baseballist,  boxer,  swim- 
mer, runner,  jumper,  shot-putter.  And  he  was  the 
best  quoit-thrower  in  the  New  Haven  town  square. 
Rudd  had  rather  dim  notions  of  some  of  the  games, 
so  that  Eric  was  established  both  as  center  rush 
of  the  football  team  and  the  cockswain  in  the  crew. 

He  was  also  a  member  of  all  the  best  fraternities. 
He  was  a  "Bones"  man  in  his  Freshman  year,  and 
in  his  Sophomore  year  added  the  other  Senior  so- 
cieties. And,  of  course,  he  stood  at  the  head  of  all 
his  classes — though  he  never  condescended  to  take  a 
single  red  apple  to  a  professor. 

The  boy's  college  life  lasted  Rudd  a  thousand  and 
one  evenings.  It  was  in  beautiful  contrast  with  the 
career  of  Kittredge's  children,  some  of  whom  were 
forever  flunking  their  examinations,  slipping  back  a 
year,  requiring  expensive  tutors,  acquiring  bad 
habits,  and  getting  into  debt.  Almost  the  only  joy 
Kittredge  had  of  them  was  in  telegraphing  them 
money  in  response  to  their  telegrams  for  money — 
they  never  wrote.  Their  vacations  either  sent  them 
scurrying  on  house  parties  or  other  excursions.  Or 
if  they  came  home  they  were  discontented  with 

15  211 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

house  and  parents.  They  corrected  Kittredge's  gram- 
mar, though  his  State  accounted  him  an  orator. 
They  corrected  Mrs.  Kittredge's  etiquette,  though 
Hillsdale  looked  up  to  her  as  a  social  arbitrix. 

Kittredge  poured  a  deal  of  his  disappointment  into 
Rudd's  ear,  because  his  hard  heart  was  broken  and 
breaking  anew  every  day,  and  he  had  to  tell  some- 
body. He  knew  that  his  old  clerk  would  keep  it 
where  he  kept  all  the  secrets  of  his  business,  but  he 
never  knew  that  Rudd  still  had  a  child  of  his  own, 
forging  ahead  without  failure.  Rudd  could  give 
comfort,  for  he  had  it  to  spare,  and  he  was  empty  of 
envy. 

It  was  a  ghastly  morning  when  Kittredge  showed 
Rudd  a  telegram  saying  that  his  eldest  son,  Thomas, 
had  thrown  himself  in  front  of  a  train  because  of  the 
discovery  that  his  accounts  were  wrong.  Kittredge 
had  found  him  a  place  in  a  New  York  bank,  but  the 
gambling  fever  had  seized  the  young  fellow.  And 
now  he  was  dead,  in  his  sins,  in  his  shame.  Dives 
cried  out  to  Lazarus: 

"It's  hell  to  be  a  father,  Will.  It's  an  awful  thing 
to  bring  children  into  the  world  and  try  to  carry  'em 
through  it.  It's  not  a  man's  job.  It's  God's." 

At  times  like  these,  and  when  Rudd  heard  from 
the  tattlers,  or  read  in  the  printed  gossip  of  the 
evening  paper  concerning  the  multifarious  wicked- 
nesses of  the  children  of  men  about  the  earth,  he 
felt  almost  glad  that  his  boy  had  never  lived  upon  so 
plague-infected  a  world.  But  in  the  soothe  of  twi- 

212 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

light  the  old  pipe  persuaded  him  to  a  pleasanter  view 
of  his  boy,  alive  and  always  doing  the  right  thing, 
avoiding  the  evil. 

His  motto  was,  "Eric  would  have  done  different." 
He  was  sure  of  that.  It  was  his  constant  conclusion. 

After  graduating  from  an  imaginary  Yale  Eric 
went  to  an  imaginary  law-school  in  New  York  City 
— no  less.  Then  he  was  admitted  to  that  imaginary 
bar  where  a  lawyer  never  defends  an  unrighteous 
cause,  never  loses  a  case,  yet  grows  rich.  And,  of 
course,  like  every  other  American  boy  that  dreams 
or  is  dreamed  of,  in  good  time  he  had  to  become 
President. 

Eric  lived  so  exemplary  a  life,  was  so  busy  in 
virtue,  so  unblemished  of  fault,  that  he  could  not  be 
overlooked  by  the  managers  of  the  quadrennial 
national  performance,  searching  with  Demosthenes' 
lantern  for  a  man  against  whom  nothing  could  be 
said.  They  called  Eric  from  private  life  to  be  head- 
liner  in  their  vaudeville. 

Rudd  had  watched  Kittredge  clambering  to  his 
success,  or  rather  wallowing  to  it  through  a  swamp 
of  mud.  All  the  wrong  things  Kittredge  had  ever 
done,  and  their  name  was  legion,  were  hurled  in  his 
path.  His  family  scandals  were  dug  up  by  the 
double  handful  and  splashed  in  his  face.  Against 
his  opponent  the  same  methods  were  used.  It  was 
like  a  race  through  a  marsh;  and  when  Kittredge 
reached  his  goal  in  the  Senate  he  was  so  muck- 
bemired,  his  heart  had  been  so  lacerated,  the  naked- 

213 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

ness  of  his  past  so  exposed,  that  his  laurel  seemed 
more  like  a  wreath  of  poison  ivy.  And  once  mounted 
on  his  high  post,  he  was  an  even  better  target  than 
when  he  was  on  the  wing. 

Against  Eric's  blameless  life  the  arrows  of  slander 
were  like  darts  shot  toward  the  sun.  They  fell  back 
upon  the  archers'  heads.  That  was  a  lively  night  in 
the  tobacco  lagoon  when  the  election  returns  came 
in  and  State  after  State  swung  to  Eric's  column. 
Rudd  made  it  as  nearly  unanimous  as  he  could 
without  making  it  stupid.  The  solid  South  he  left 
unbroken;  he  just  brought  it  over  to  Eric  en  bloc. 
For  Eric,  it  seems,  had  devised  what  everybody  else 
has  looked  for  in  vain,  a  solution  of  the  negro  prob- 
lem to  satisfy  both  North  and  South — and  the 
negroes.  Unfortunately  the  details  have  been  lost. 

Marthy  was  there,  of  course;  she  rode  in  the  same 
hack  with  their  boy.  Some  of  the  politicians  and  the 
ex-President  wanted  to  get  in,  but  Eric  said: 

"  My  mother  and  father  ride  with  me  or  I  won't  be 
President." 

That  settled  'em.  Eric  even  wanted  to  ride  back- 
ward, too,  but  Will,  as  his  father,  insisted;  and  of 
course  Eric  obeyed,  though  he  was  President.  And 
the  weather  was  more  like  June  than  March,  no 
blizzards  delaying  trains  and  distributing  pneumonia. 

Once  the  administration  was  begun,  the  news- 
papers differed  strangely  in  their  treatment  of  Eric 
from  their  attitude  toward  other  Chief  Magistrates, 
from  Washington  down.  Realizing  that  Eric  was  an 

214 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

honorable  man  trying  to  do  the  right  thing  by  the 
people,  no  editor  or  cartoonist  dreamed  of  accusing 
him  of  an  unworthy  motive  or  an  unwise  act.  As 
for  the  tariff  labyrinth,  a  matter  of  some  trouble  to 
certain  Presidents  pulled  in  all  directions  at  once  by 
warring  constituencies,  Eric  settled  that  in  a  jiffy. 
And  the  best  of  it  was  that  everybody  was  satisfied, 
importers  and  exporters;  East,  West,  and  Middle; 
farmers,  manufacturers,  lumbermen,  oilmen,  painters 
— everybody. 

And  when  his  first  term  was  ended  the  Democrats 
and  Republicans,  realizing  that  they  had  at  last 
found  a  perfectly  wise  and  honorable  ruler,  nomi- 
nated him  by  acclamation  at  both  conventions.  The 
result  was  delightful;  both  parties  elected  their 
candidate. 

Marthy  and  Will  sat  with  Eric  in  the  carriage  at  the 
second  inaugural,  too.  There  was  an  argument  again 
about  who  should  ride  backward.  Rudd  said: 

"Eric,  your  Excellency,  these  here  crowds  came  to 
see  you,  and  you  ought  to  face  'em.  As  your  dad 
I  order  you  to  set  there  'side  of  your  mother." 

But  Eric  said,  "Dad,  your  Majesty,  the  people 
have  seen  me  often  enough,  and  as  the  President  of 
these  here  United  States  I  order  you  to  set  there 
'side  of  your  wife." 

And  of  course  Rudd  had  to  do  it.  Folks  looked 
very  much  surprised  to  see  him  and  there  was  quite 
a  piece  in  the  papers  about  it. 

To  every  man   his   day's   work   and   his   night's 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

dream.  Will  Rudd  has  poor  nourishment  of  the 
former,  but  he  is  richly  fed  of  the  latter.  His  failures 
and  his  poverty  and  the  monotony  of  his  existence 
are  public  knowledge;  his  dream  is  his  own  triumph 
and  the  greater  for  being  his  secret. 

The  Fates  seemed  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  be 
cruel  to  Will  Rudd,  but  he  beat  them  at  their  own 
game.  Clotho,  Lachesis,  and  Atropos  kept  Jupiter 
himself  in  awe  of  their  shears,  and  the  old  Norns, 
Urdur,  Verdandi,  and  Skuld,  ruined  Wotan's  power 
and  his  glory.  But  they  could  not  touch  the  shoe 
clerk.  They  shattered  his  little  scheme  of  things 
to  bits,  but  he  rebuilt  it  nearer  to  his  heart's  desire. 
He  spread  a  sky  about  his  private  planet  and  ruled 
his  little  universe  like  a  tribal  god.  He,  alone  of  all 
men,  had  won  the  oldest,  vainest  prayer  that  was 
ever  said  or  sung:  "O  God,  keep  the  woman  I  love 
young  and  beautiful,  and  grant  our  child  happiness 
and  success  without  sin  or  sorrow." 

If,  sometimes,  the  imagination  of  the  matter-of- 
fact  man  wavers,  and  the  ugliness  of  his  loneliness 
overwhelms  him,  thrusts  through  his  dream  like  a 
hideous  mountainside  when  an  avalanche  strips  the 
barren  crags  of  their  fleece;  and  if  he  then  breaks 
down  and  calls  aloud  for  his  child  and  his  wife  to 
be  given  back  to  him  from  Out  There — these  panics 
are  also  his  secret.  Only  the  homely  sitting-room 
of  the  lonely  frame  house  knows  them.  He  opens 
the  door  of  the  wood-stove  or  follows  his  pipe  smoke 
and  rallies  his  courage,  resumes  his  dream.  The 

216 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

next  morning  sees  him  emerge  from  his  door  and  go 
briskly  to  the  shop  as  always,  whether  his  path  is 
through  rain  or  sleet,  or  past  the  recurrent  lilacs  that 
have  scattered  many  a  purple  snow  across  his  side- 
walk since  the  bankruptcy  of  his  ambitions. 

He  would  have  been  proud  to  be  the  unknown 
father  of  a  great  man.  He  was  not  permitted  to 
be  the  father  even  of  a  humble  man.  Yet  being 
denied  the  reality,  he  has  taken  sustenance  in  what 
might  have  been,  and  has  turned  "the  saddest  words 
of  tongue  or  pen"  into  something  almost  sweet. 
If  his  child  has  missed  the  glories  of  what  might  have 
been,  he  has  escaped  the  shames  that  might  have 
been,  and  the  bruises  and  heartaches  and  remorses 
that  must  have  been,  that  always  have  been.  That 
is  the  increasing  consolation  a  bitter  world  offers  to 
those  who  love  and  have  lost.  That  was  Rudd's 
solace.  And  he  made  the  most  of  it;  added  to  it  a 
dream.  He  was  a  wise  man. 

After  he  paid  his  sorrowful  debts  his  next  slow 
savings  went  to  the  building  of  a  monument  for  his 
family.  It  is  one  of  the  handsomest  shafts  in  the 
cemetery.  If  Rudd  could  brag  of  anything  he 
would  brag  of  that.  The  inscription  took  a  long 
time  to  write.  You  could  tell  that  by  its  simplicity. 
And  you  might  notice  the  blank  space  left  for  his  own 
name  when  all  three  shall  be  together  again. 

Rudd  is  now  saving  a  third  fund  against  the  en- 
croaching time  when  he  shall  be  too  feeble  to  get 
up  from  his  knees  after  he  has  dropped  upon  them  to 

217 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

unlace  somebody's  sandal.  Lonely  old  orphans  like 
Rudd  must  provide  their  own  pensions.  There  is  a 
will,  however,  which  bequeaths  whatever  is  left  of  his 
funds  to  an  orphan  home.  Being  a  sonless  father, 
he  thinks  of  the  sons  who  have  no  fathers  to  do  for 
them  what  he  was  so  fain  to  do  for  his.  It  is  not  a 
large  fund  for  these  days  when  rich  men  toss  millions 
as  tips  to  posterity,  but  it  is  pretty  good  for  a  shoe 
clerk.  And  it  will  mean  everything  to  some  Eric 
that  gets  himself  really  born. 

If  you  drop  in  at  the  Emporium  and  ask  for  a  pair 
of  shoes  or  boots,  or  slippers  or  rubbers,  or  trees  or 
pumps,  and  wait  for  old  Rudd  to  get  round  to  you, 
you  will  be  served  with  deference,  yet  with  a  pride  of 
occupation  that  is  almost  priestly.  And  you  will 
probably  buy  something,  whether  you  want  it  or  not. 

The  old  man  is  slightly  shuffly  in  his  gaiters.  His 
own  elastics  are  less  resilient  than  once  they  were. 
If  you  ask  for  anything  on  the  top  shelf  he  is  a  trifle 
slow  getting  the  ladder  and  rather  ratchety  in  clam- 
bering up  and  down,  and  his  eyes  are  growing  so 
tired  that  he  may  offer  you  a  6D  when  you  ask  for 
a3A. 

But,  above  all  things,  don't  hurt  his  pride  by 
offering  to  help  him  to  his  feet  if  he  shows  some  dif- 
ficulty in  rising  when  he  has  performed  his  genu- 
flexion before  you.  Just  pretend  not  to  notice,  as 
he  would  pretend  not  to  notice  any  infirmity  or 
vanity  of  yours.  It  is  his  vanity  to  be  still  the  best 
shoe  clerk  in  town — as  he  is. 

218 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

There  is  a  gracious  satisfiedness  about  the  old  man 
that  radiates  contentment  and  makes  you  comfort- 
able for  the  time  in  most  uncomfortable  shoes.  And 
as  old  Rudd  says: 

"You'll  find  that  the  best  shoe  is  the  one  that 
pinches  at  first  and  hurts  a  little;  in  time  it  will  grow 
very  comfortable  and  still  be  becoming." 

That  is  what  Rudd  says,  and  he  ought  to  know. 

In  these  days  he  is  so  supremely  comfortable  in  his 
old  shoes  that  his  own  fellow-clerks  hardly  know 
what  to  make  of  him.  If  they  only  understood 
what  is  going  on  in  his  private  world  they  would 
realize  that  Eric  is  about  to  be  married — in  the 
White  House.  The  boy  was  so  busy  for  the  country 
and  loved  his  mother  so  that  he  had  no  time  to  go 
sparkin'. 

But  Marthy  got  after  him  and  said:  "Eric,  they're 
goin'  to  make  you  President  for  the  third  term.  Oh, 
what's  that  old  tradition  got  to  do  with  it?  Can't 
they  change  it?  Well,  you  mark  my  words,  like  as 
not  you'll  settle  down  and  live  in  the  White  House 
the  rest  of  your  life.  You'd  ought  to  have  a  wife, 
Eric,  and  be  raisin'  some  childern  to  comfort  your 
declining  years.  What  would  Will  and  me  have  done 
without  you?  I'm  gettin'  old,  Eric,  and  I'd  kind  o' 
like  to  see  how  it  feels  to  be  a  grandmother,  before 
they  take  me  out  to  the — " 

But  that  was  a  word  Rudd  could  never  frame  even 
in  his  thoughts. 

Eric,  being  a  mighty  good  boy,  listened  to  his 
219 


mother,  as  always.  And  Marthy  looked  everywhere 
for  an  ideal  woman,  and  when  she  found  one,  Eric 
fell  in  love  with  her  right  away.  It  is  not  every 
child  that  is  so  dutiful  as  that. 

The  marriage  is  to  take  place  shortly  and  Rudd  is 
very  busy  with  the  details.  He  will  go  on  to  Wash- 
ington, of  course — of  evenings.  In  fact,  the  wed- 
ding is  to  be  in  the  evening,  so  that  he  won't  have  to 
miss  any  time  at  the  shop.  There  are  so  many 
people  coming  in  every  day  and  asking  for  shoes, 
that  he  wouldn't  dare  be  away. 

Martha  is  insisting  on  Will's  buying  a  dress  soot  for 
the  festivities,  but  he  is  in  doubt  about  that.  Martha, 
though,  shall  have  the  finest  dress  in  the  land,  for  she 
is  more  beautiful  even  than  Eric's  bride,  and  she 
doesn't  look  a  day  older  than  she  did  when  she  was  a 
bride  herself.  A  body  would  never  guess  how  many 
years  ago  that  was. 

The  White  House  is  going  to  be  all  lit  up,  and  a 
lot  of  big  folks  will  be  there — a  couple  of  kings,  like 
as  not.  There  will  be  fried  chicken  for  dinner  and 
ice-cream — mixed,  maybe,  chocolate  and  vanella, 
and  p'raps  a  streak  of  strawb'ry.  And  there  will 
be  enough  so's  everybody  can  have  two  plates. 
Marthy  will  prob'ly  bake  the  cake  herself,  if  she 
can  get  that  old  White  House  stove  to  working 
right. 

Rudd  has  a  great  surprise  in  store  for  her.  He's 
going  to  tell  a  good  one  on  Marthy.  At  just  the 
proper  moment  he's  going  to  lean  over — Lord,  he 

220 


THE  MAN  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

hopes  he  can  keep  his  face  straight — and  say,  kind  of 
offhand: 

"Do  you  remember,  Marthy,  the  time  when  you 
was  makin'  little  baby-clothes  for  the  President  of 
the  United  States  here,  and  you  says  to  me — you 
see,  Eric,  she'd  made  me  quit  smokin',  herself,  but 
she  plumb  forgot  all  about  that — and  she  says  to  me, 
s'she,  'Why  don't  you  smoke  your  pipe  any  more, 
Will?'  she  says.  And  I  says,  'I'd  kind  o'  got  out  of 
the  habit,  Marthy/  sT,  'but  I  guess  I'll  git  back  in/ 
s'L  I  said  it  right  off  like  that,  'I  guess  I'll  git  back 
in!' s'l.  Remember,  Marthy?" 


THE  HAPPIEST  MAN  IN  IOWAY 

JES'  down  the    road  a  piece,  'ith  dust  so  deep 
It  teched  the  bay  mare's  fetlocks,  an'  the  sun 
So  b'ilin'  hot,  the  peewees  dassn't  peep, 

Seemed  like  midsummer  'fore  the  spring's  begun! 
An'  me  plumb  beat  an'  good-for-nothin'-like 

An'  awful  lonedsome  fer  a  sight  o'  you  .  .  . 
I  come  to  that  big  locus'  by  the  pike, 

An'  she  was  all  in  bloom,  an'  trembly,  too, 
With  breezes  like  drug-store  perfumery. 

I  stood  up  in  my  sturrups,  with  my  head 
So  deep  in  flowers  they  almost  smothered  me. 

I  kind  o'  liked  to  think  that  I  was  dead  .  .  . 
An'  if  I  hed  'a'  died  like  that  to-day, 
I'd  V  b'en  the  happiest  man  in  loway. 

For  what's  the  use't  o'  goin'  on  like  this? 

Your  pa  not  'lowin'  me  around  the  place  .  .  . 
Well,  fust  I  knowed,  I'd  give'  them  blooms  a  kiss; 

They  tasted  like  Good-Night  on  your  white  face. 
I  reached  my  arms  out  wide,  an'  hugged  'em — say, 

I  dreamp'  your  little  heart  was  hammerin'  me! 
I  broke  this  branch  off  for  a  love-bo'quet; 

'F  I'd  b'en  a  giant,  I'd  'a'  plucked  the  tree! 

222 


THE   HAPPIEST   MAN   IN   IOWAY 

The  blooms  is  kind  o'  dusty  from  the  road, 
But  you  won't  mind.     So,  as  the  feller  said, 

"When  this  you  see  remember  me" — I  knowed 
Another  poem;    but  I've  lost  my  head 

From  seein'  you!     'Bout  all  that  I  kin  say 

Is — "I'm  the  happiest  man  in  loway." 

Well,  comin'  'long  the  road  I  seen  your  ma 

Drive  by  to  town — she  didn't  speak  to  me! 
An'  in  the  farthest  field  I  seen  your  pa 

At  his  spring-plowin',  like  I'd  ought  to  be. 
But,  knowin'  you'd  be  here  all  by  yourself, 

I  hed  to  come;   for  now's  our  livin'  chance! 
Take  off  yer  apern,  leave  things  on  the  shelf — 

Our  preacher  needs  what  th'  feller  calls  "romance/ 
'Ain't  got  no  red-wheeled  buggy;    but  the  mare 

Will  carry  double,  like  we've  trained  her  to. 
Jes'  put  a  locus'-blossom  in  your  hair 

An'  let's  ride  straight  to  heaven — me  an'  you! 
I'll  build  y'  a  little  house,  an'  folks  '11  say: 
"There  lives  the  happiest  pair  in  loway." 


PRAYERS 

GOD  leaned  forward  in  His  throne  and  bent  His 
all-seeing  gaze  upon  one  of  the  least  of  the 
countless  suns.  A  few  tiny  planets  spun  slowly  about 
it  like  dead  leaves  around  a  deserted  camp-fire. 

Almost  the  smallest  of  these  planets  had  named 
itself  the  Earth.  The  glow  of  the  central  cinder 
brightened  one  side  and  they  called  that  Day. 
And  where  the  shadow  was  was  Night. 

The  creeping  glimmer  of  Day  woke,  as  it  passed, 
a  jangle  in  shops  and  factories,  a  racket  and  hurry 
of  traffic,  war  and  business,  which  the  coming  of  the 
gloom  hushed  in  its  turn.  As  God's  eyes  pierced  the 
shadow  they  found,  between  the  dotted  lines  of 
street-lamps  and  under  the  roofs  where  the  windows 
glimmered — revelry  or  solemnity.  In  denser  shad- 
ows there  was  a  murmur  of  the  voices  of  lovers  and 
of  families  at  peace  or  at  war. 

The  All-hearing  heard  no  chaos  in  this  discord,  but 
knew  each  instrument  and  understood  each  melody, 
concord,  and  clash.  Loudest  of  all  were  the  silences 
or  the  faint  whimperings  of  those  who  knelt  by  their 
beds  and  bent  their  brows  toward  their  own  bosoms, 
communing  with  the  various  selves  that  they  inter- 
preted as  the  one  God.  He  knew  who  prayed  for 

224 


PRAYERS 

what,  and  He  answered  each  in  His  own  wisdom, 
knowing  that  He  would  seem  to  have  answered  none 
and  knowing  why. 

Among  the  multitudinous  prayers  one  group  ar- 
rived at  His  throne  from  separate  places,  but  linked 
together  by  their  contradictions.  He  heard  the 
limping  effort  to  be  formal  as  before  a  king  or  a 
court  of  justice.  He  heard  the  anxious  fear  break 
through  the  petition;  He  heard  the  selfish  eagerness 
trembling  in  the  pious  phrases  of  altruism.  He 
understood. 

i.  A  MAN'S  VOICE 

Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven  let  me  come  back 
to  Thy  kingdom.  Bless  my  wife  Edith  and  our 
little  Marjorie  and  give  them  to  me  again.  I  am  not 
worthy  of  them;  I  have  sinned  against  them  and 
against  Thee.  I  have  been  drunken,  adulterous, 
heartless,  but  from  this  night  I  will  be  good  again. 
I  will  try  with  all  my  soul,  and  with  Thy  help  I  will 
succeed.  Teach  me  to  be  strong.  Forgive  me  my 
trespasses  and  help  Edith  to  forgive  them.  Make 
my  wife  beautiful  in  my  sight  and  make  all  those 
other  beautiful  faces  ugly  in  my  eyes  so  that  I  shall 
see  only  Edith  as  I  used  to. 

Grant  me  freedom  from  the  wicked  woman  who 
will  not  let  me  go;  don't  let  Rose  carry  out  her 
threats;  don't  let  her  wreck  my  home;  make  her 
understand  that  I  am  doing  my  duty;  make  her  love 
some  one  else;  make  her  forget  me.  How  can  I 

225 


IN  A   LITTLE   TOWN 

be  true  to  my  sin  and  true  to  Thee!  Help  me  out  of 
these  depths,  O  Lord,  that  I  may  walk  in  the  narrow 
path  and  escape  destruction. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  back  to  my  wife  and  my 
child  with  words  of  love  and  humility  on  my  lips. 
.  Give  me  back  my  home  again,  O  God.     Amen. 

n.  A  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

Let  me  come  to  Thee  again,  dear  Father,  and  do 
not  reject  my  prayer.  Forgive  me  for  what  I  shall 
do  to-night.  Take  care  of  my  little  Marjorie  and 
save  her  from  the  temptations  that  have  over- 
whelmed me.  Thou  alone  knowest  how  hard  I  have 
tried  to  live  without  love,  how  long  I  have  waited 
for  John  to  come  back  to  me.  Thou  only  hast  seen 
me  struggling  against  the  long  loneliness.  Thou 
alone  canst  forgive,  for  Thou  hast  seen  me  refuse 
to  be  tempted  with  love.  Thou  hast  heard  my 
cries  in  the  long,  long  nights.  Thou  knowest  that 
I  have  been  true  to  my  husband  who  was  not  true 
to  me.  Thou  hast  seen  me  put  away  the  happiness 
that  Frank  has  offered  me  and  asked  of  me.  And 
now  if  I  can  endure  no  longer,  if  I  give  myself  to  him, 
more  for  his  sake  than  mine,  let  me  bear  the  punish- 
ment, not  Frank;  let  me  bear  even  the  punishment 
John  has  earned.  I  am  what  Thou  hast  made  me, 
Lord.  If  it  be  Thy  pleasure  that  I  shall  burn  in  the 
fires  forever,  then  let  Thy  will  be  done;  for  I  can 
live  no  longer  without  Frank.  Thou  mayest  refuse 

226 


PRAYERS 

to  hear  my  prayers,  but  I  cannot  refuse  to  hear  his. 
Forgive  me  if  I  leave  my  beloved  child  alone.  She 
is  safer  with  Thee  than  with  me.  Perhaps  her 
father  will  be  good  to  her  now.  Perhaps  he  will 
turn  back  to  her  if  I  am  away.  And  help  me 
through  the  coming  years  to  be  true  to  Frank.  He 
needs  me,  he  loves  me,  he  is  braving  the  wrath  of  the 
world  and  of  heaven  for  my  sake. 

Help  us,  Lord,  to  find  in  our  new  life  the  peace  and 
the  virtue  that  was  not  in  the  old  and  bless  and 
guard  my  motherless  little  Marjorie,  O  God,  and 
save  her  from  the  fate  that  overwhelmed  her  mother 
for  her  father's  fault.  I  am  leaving  her  asleep  here 
in  Thy  charge,  O  God.  When  she  wakes  in  the 
morning  let  Thy  angels  comfort  her  and  dry  her 
tears.  Let  me  not  hear  her  crying  for  me,  or  I  shall 
kill  myself.  I  cannot  bear  everything.  I  have  en- 
dured more  than  my  strength  can  endure.  Help  me, 

0  Lord,  and  forgive  me  for  my  sin — if  sin  it  is. 
Amen. 

in.  A  MAN'S  VOICE 

God,  if  You  are  in  heaven,  hear  me  and  help  me. 

1  have  not  prayed  for  many  years.     My  voice  is 
strange  to  You.     My  prayer  may  offend  You,  but 
it  rushes  from  my  heart. 

I  am  about  to  do  what  the  world  calls  hideous 
crime — to  steal  another  man's  wife  and  carry  her  to 
another  country  where  we  may  have  peace.  I  loved 
Edith  before  her  husband  loved  her.  I  love  her 

16  227 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

better  than  John  ever  loved  her.  I  can't  stand  it. 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer  to  see  her  deserted  in  her 
beauty,  and  despised  and  weeping  in  loneliness, 
wasting  her  love  on  a  dog  who  squandered  his  heart 
on  a  vile  woman.  I  can't  go  on  watching  her  die  in 
a  living  hell.  I  have  sold  all  my  goods  and  gotten 
all  I  could  save  into  my  safe  so  that  we  may  sever  all 
ties  with  this  heartless  love.  If  what  we  are  about 
to  do  offends  Thee,  then  let  me  suffer  for  her.  She 
has  suffered  enough,  enough,  enough! 

And  keep  her  husband  from  following  us,  lest  I 
kill  him.  Keep  her  from  mourning  too  much  for 
her  child — his  child.  Give  her  a  little  happiness, 
O  God.  Take  bitter  toll  from  my  heart  afterward, 
but  give  us  a  little  happiness  now.  Grant  us  escape 
to-night  and  safety  and  a  little  happiness  for  her. 
And  then  I  shall  believe  in  Thee  again  and  live 
honorably  in  Thy  sight.  Amen. 

iv.  A  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

Dear  God  in  heaven,  what  shall  I  do?  He  has 
abandoned  me,  John  has  turned  against  me  at  last. 
Has  denounced  me  as  wicked,  and  hateful,  has  ac- 
cused me  of  wrecking  his  life  and  breaking  his  wife's 
heart — as  if  she  had  a  heart,  as  if  I  had  not  saved 
him  from  despair,  as  if  I  had  not  sacrificed  my 
name,  my  hopes,  on  earth  and  in  heaven  to  make 
him  happy. 

O  God,  why  hast  Thou  persecuted  me  so  fiercely 

228 


PRAYERS 

always?  What  made  You  hate  me  so?  Why 
didn't  You  give  me  a  decent  home  as  a  child?  Why 
did  You  throw  me  into  the  snares  of  those  vile  men  ? 
Why  did  You  make  me  beautiful  and  weak  and 
trusting?  Why  didn't  You  make  me  ugly  and  sus- 
picious and  hateful  so  that  I  could  be  good  ? 

And  now,  now  that  I  am  no  longer  a  girl,  now  that 
the  wrinkles  are  coming,  and  the  fat  and  the  dullness, 
why  didst  Thou  throw  me  into  the  way  of  this  man 
who  promised  to  love  me  forever,  who  promised  me 
and  praised  me  and  called  me  his  real  wife,  only  to 
tire  of  me  and  tear  my  hands  away  and  go  back  to 
her? 

But  don't  let  him  have  her,  don't  let  him  oe  happy 
with  her,  while  I  grovel  here  in  shame!  I  can't  bear 
the  thought  of  that,  I  can't  imagine  him  in  her  arms 
telling  her  how  good  she  is  and  how  bad  I  was.  I'd 
rather  kill  them  both.  Isn't  that  best,  O  Lord — to 
kill  them  both — to  kill  her,  anyway?  Then  I  can 
kill  myself  and  he  will  be  sorry.  Don't  let  him 
have  both  of  us,  O  God.  Am  I  going  mad,  or  do  I 
hear  Thy  voice  telling  me  to  act?  Yes,  it  is  Thy 
voice.  Thou  hast  answered.  I  will  do  as  Thou 
dost  command.  Perhaps  he  is  going  there  to-night. 
I  will  go  to  the  house  and  wait  in  the  shadow  and 
when  he  comes  to  the  door  and  she  comes  to  meet 
him  I  will  shoot  her  and  myself,  and  then  he  shall  be 
punished  as  he  should  be. 

I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  showing  me  the  way. 
Guide  my  arm  and  my  heart  and  don't  let  me  be 

229 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

afraid  to  die  or  to  make  her  die.  Forgive  my  sins 
and  take  me  into  Thy  peace,  O  God,  for  I  am  tired 
of  life  and  the  wickedness  of  the  world.  Amen. 
Amen. 

v.  A  CHILD'S  VOICE 

Our  Father  which  art  in  heVm,  hallowed  be  Dy 
name.  Dy  king'm  come.  Dy  will  be  done  in  earf 
as  it  is  in  he'v'm.  Give  us  dis  day  our  daily  bread 
and  forgive  an' — an'  forgive  Marjorie  for  bein'  a 
bad  chile  an'  getting  so  s'eepy,  and  b'ess  papa  an' 
b'ing  him  home  to  mamma  an' — an*  trespasses  as 
— tres-passes  'gainst  us.  King'm,  power,  and  glory 
forever.  Amen. 

vi.  AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

— and  give  my  poor  Edith  strength  and  let  her 
find  happiness  again  in  the  return  of  her  husband. 
Let  her  forget  his  wrongs  and  forgive  them  and  live 
happily  in  her  old  age  as  I  have  done  with  my 
husband.  I  thank  Thee  for  helping  me  through 
those  cruel  years.  Thou  alone  couldst  have  helped 
me  and  now  all  would  be  happiness  if  only  Edith  had 
happiness,  but  for  the  mercies  Thou  hast  vouchsafed 
make  me  grateful. 

vn.  AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

— and  help  my  poor  Rose  to  be  a  good  girl  to  her 
old  mother  and  keep  her  out  of  trouble  and  make 

230 


PRAYERS 

her  send  me  some  more  money,  for  I'm  so  sick 
and  tired  and  the  rent's  comin'  due  and  I  need  a 
warm  coat  for  the  winter,  and  I've  had  a  hard  life 
and  many's  the  curse  You've  put  upon  me,  but 
I'm  doing  my  best  and  I'm  all  wore  out. 

vin.  A  MAN'S  VOICE 

Fergimme,  O  Gawd,  if  it  makes  Thou  mad  fer  to 
be  prayed  to  by  a  sneakin'  boiglar,  but  help  me 
t'roo  dis  one  job  and  I'll  go  straight  from  now  on, 
so  help  me.  Don't  let  dis  guy  find  me  crackin'  his 
safe,  so's  I  won't  have  to  kill  'im.  Help  me  make  a 
clean  getaway  and  I'll  toin  over  a  noo  leaf,  I  will. 
I'll  send  money  to  me  mudder,  and  I'll  go  to  choich 
reg'lar  and  I'll  never  do  nuttin'  crooked  again. 
On'y  dis  one  time,  O  Gawd. 

God  closed  His  eyes  and  smiled  the  sorrowful 
smile  of  the  All-knowing,  the  All-pitying,  the  Un- 
known, the  Unpitied,  and  He  said  to  Him  who  sat 
at  His  side: 

"They  call  these  Prayers!  They  will  wonder 
why  I  have  not  finished  the  tasks  they  set  Me  nor 
accepted  the  bribes  they  offered.  And  to-morrow 
they  will  rebuke  Me  as  a  faithless,  indolent  servant 
who  has  disobeyed!" 


PAIN 


TOW  much  more  bitter,  dearly  beloved,  are 

1  1  the  anguishes  of  the  soul  than  any  mere 
bodily  distress!  When  the  heart  under  conviction 
of  sin  for  the  violation  of  one  of  God's  laws  writhes 
and  cries  aloud  in  repentance  and  remorse,  then, 
ah,  then,  is  true  suffering.  What  are  the  fleeting 
torments  of  this  tenement  of  clay,  mere  bone  and 
flesh,  to  the  soul's  despair?  Nothing!  Noth — " 

The  clergyman's  emphatic  fist  did  not  thump  the 
Scriptures  the  second  time.  He  checked  it  in  air; 
for  a  woman  stood  up  straight  and  stared  at  him 
straight.  Her  thin  mouth  seemed  to  twist  with  a 
sneer.  He  thought  he  read  on  her  lips  words  not 
quite  uttered.  He  read: 

"You  fool!    You  fool!" 

Then  Miss  Straley  sidled  from  the  family  pew 
to  the  aisle  and  marched  up  it  and  out  of  the  church. 

Doctor  Crosson  was  shocked  doubly.  The  wom- 
an's action  was  an  outrage  upon  the  holy  composure 
of  the  Sabbath,  and  it  would  remind  everybody  that 
he  was  an  old  lover  of  Irene  Straley's. 

The  neatly  arranged  congregational  skulls  were 

232 


PAIN 

disordered  now,  some  still  tilted  forward  in  sleep, 
some  tilted  back  to  see  what  the  pastor  would  do, 
some  craned  round  to  observe  the  departer,  some 
turned  inward  in  whispering  couples. 

Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before  in  all  the 
parsoning  of  Doctor  Crosson — the  D.D.  had  been 
conferred  on  him  by  the  small  theological  institute 
where  he  had  imbibed  enough  dogmas  in  two  years 
to  last  him  a  lifetime. 

Some  of  his  dogmas  were  so  out  of  fashion  that  he 
felt  them  a  trifle  shabby  even  for  village  wear.  He 
had  laid  aside  the  old  red  hell-fire  dogma  for  a  new 
one  of  hell-as-a-state-of-mind.  He  was  expounding 
that  doctrine  this  morning  again.  He  had  never 
heard  any  complaint  of  it.  But  his  mind  was  so  far 
from  his  memory  that  he  hardly  knew  what  he  had 
just  uttered.  He  wondered  what  he  could  have 
said  to  offend  Miss  Straley. 

But  he  must  not  stand  there  gaping  and  wonder- 
ing before  his  gaping  and  wondering  congregation. 
He  must  push  on  to  his  lastly 's.  His  mind  retraced 
his  words,  and  he  repeated: 

"What  are  the  fleeting  torments  of  this  tenement 
of  clay,  mere  bone  and  flesh,  to  the  soul's  despair? 
Nothing!  As  I  said  before — nothing!" 

And  then  he  understood  why  Irene  Straley  had 
walked  out.  The  realization  deranged  him  so  that 
only  the  police-force  every  one  has  among  his  faculties 
coerced  him  into  going  on  with  his  sermon* 

It  was  a  good  sermon.  It  was  his  own,  too; 
233 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

for  at  last  he  had  paid  the  final  instalment  on  the 
clergyman's  library  which  contained  a  thousand  ser- 
mons as  aids  to  overworked,  underinspired  evan- 
gelists. He  had  built  this  discourse  from  well- 
seasoned  timbers.  He  had  used  it  in  two  pulpits 
where  he  had  visited,  and  now  he  was  giving  it  to 
his  own  flock.  He  knew  it  well  enough  to  trust  his 
oratorical  machinery  with  its  delivery,  while  the  rest 
of  his  mind  meditated  other  things. 

Often,  while  preaching,  a  portion  of  his  brain 
would  be  watching  the  effect  on  his  congregation, 
another  watching  the  clock,  another  thinking  of  din- 
ner, another  musing  over  the  scandals  he  knew  in  the 
lives  of  the  parishioners. 

But  now  all  his  by-thoughts  were  scattered  at  the 
abrupt  deed  of  Irene  Straley.  She  was  the  traffic  of 
his  other  brains  now,  while  his  lips  went  on  enounc- 
ing the  phrases  of  his  discourse  and  his  fists  thudded 
the  Bible  for  emphasis.  He  was  remembering  his 
boyhood  and  his  infatuation  for  Irene  Straley.  That 
was  before  he  was  sure  of  his  call  to  the  ministry.  If 
he  had  married  her,  he  might  not  have  heard  the  call. 

Doctor  Crosson  hoped  that  he  was  not  regret- 
ting that  sacrament!  Sweat  came  out  on  his  brow 
as  he  understood  the  blasphemy  of  noting  (even  here 
on  the  rostrum  with  his  mouth  pouring  forth  sacred 
eloquence)  that  Irene  Straley  as  she  marched  out  of 
the  church  was  still  slender  and  flexile,  virginal. 
Doctor  Crosson  mopped  his  brow  at  the  atrocity  of 
his  thoughts  this  morning. 

234 


PAIN 

The  springtime  air  was  to  blame.  The  windows 
were  open  for  the  first  time.  The  breeze  that  lolled 
through  the  church  had  no  right  there.  It  was  ir- 
reverent and  frivolous.  It  was  amused  at  the 
people.  It  rippled  with  laughter  at  the  preacher's 
heavy  effort  to  start  a  jealousy  between  the  pangs  of 
the  flesh  and  the  pangs  of  the  soul. 

It  brought  into  church  a  savor  of  green  rushes 
growing  in  the  warm,  wet  thickets  where  Doctor 
Crosson — once  Eddie  Crosson — had  loved  to  go 
hunting  squirrels  and  rabbits,  and  wild  duck  in 
season.  Those  were  years  of  depravity,  but  they 
were  entrancing  in  memory.  He  felt  a  Satanic 
whisper:  "Order  these  old  fogies  out  into  the  fields 
and  let  them  worship  there.  It  is  May,  you  fool!" 

"You  fool!"  That  was  what  Irene  Straley  had 
seemed  to  whisper.  Only,  the  breeze  made  a  soft,  sweet 
coo  of  the  word  that  had  been  so  bitter  on  her  lips. 

Across  the  square  of  a  window  near  the  pulpit  a 
venerable  locust-tree  brandished  a  bough  dripping 
with  blossoms.  Countless  little  censers  of  white  spice 
swung  frankincense  and  myrrh  for  pagan  nostrils. 

There  was  a  beckoning  in  the  locust  bough,  and  in 
the  air  an  incantation  that  made  a  folly  of  sermons 
and  souls  and  old  maids'  resentments  and  gossips' 
queries.  The  preacher  fought  on,  another  Saint 
Anthony  in  a  cloud  of  witches. 

He  could  hear  himself  intoning  the  long  sermon 
with  the  familiar  pulpiteering  rhythms  and  the  final 
upsnap  of  the  last  syllable  of  each  sentence.  He 

235 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

could  see  that  the  congregation  was  already  drowsily 
forgetful  of  Irene  Straley's  absence.  But,  to  save  his 
soul,  he  could  not  keep  his  mind  from  following  her  out 
into  the  leafy  streets  and  on  into  the  past  where  she 
had  been  the  prize  he  and  young  Drury  Boldin  had 
contended  for — a  past  in  which  he  had  never  dreamed 
that  his  future  was  a  pulpit  in  his  home  town. 

He  was  the  manlier  of  the  two,  for  Drury  was  a 
delicate  boy,  too  sensitive  for  the  approval  of  his 
Spartan  fellows.  They  made  fun  of  his  gentleness. 
He  hated  to  wreathe  a  fishing-worm  on  a  hook! 
He  loathed  to  wrench  a  hook  from  a  fish's  gullet! 
The  nearest  he  had  ever  come  to  fighting  was  in  de- 
fense of  a  thousand-legged  worm  that  one  of  the 
boys  had  stuck  a  pin  through,  to  watch  it  writhe 
and  bite  itself  behind  the  pin. 

Irene  Straley  was  a  sentimental  girl.  That  was 
right  in  a  girl,  but  silly  in  a  boy. 

Once  when  Eddie  Crosson  stubbed  his  toe  and  it 
swelled  up  to  great  importance,  Irene  Straley  wept 
when  she  saw  it,  while  Drury  Boldin  turned  pale  and 
sat  down  hard.  Once  when  Drury  cut  his  thumb  with 
a  penknife  he  fainted  at  the  sight  of  his  own  blood! 

Eddie  Crosson  was  a  real  boy.  He  smoked  cubeb 
cigarettes  with  an  almost  unprecedented  precocity. 
He  nearly  learned  to  chew  tobacco.  He  could  snap 
a  sparrow  off"  a  telegraph-wire  with  a  nigger-shooter 
almost  infallibly.  He  had  the  first  air-gun  in  town 
and  a  shot-gun  at  fifteen.  He  thought  that  he  was 
manlier  than  Drury  because  he  was  wiser  and 

236 


PAIN 

stronger.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Drury 
might  suffer  more  because  he  was  more  finely  built, 
that  his  nerves  were  harp-strings  while  Crosson's  were 
fence-wire. 

So  Crosson  called  Drury  a  milksop  because  he 
would  not  go  hunting.  He  called  himself  one  of  the 
sons  of  Nimrod. 

For  a  time  he  gained  prestige  with  Irene  Straley, 
especially  as  he  gave  her  bright  feathers  now  and 
then,  an  oriole's  gilded  mourning,  or  a  tanager's 
scarlet  vesture. 

One  day  Drury  Boldin  was  at  her  porch  when  Ed 
came  in  from  across  the  river  with  a  brace  of  duck. 

"You  can  have  these  for  your  dinner  to-morrow, 
Reny,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  the  limp,  silky  bodies  on 
the  porch  floor. 

Their  bills  and  feet  were  grotesque,  but  there  was 
something  about  their  throats,  stretched  out  in  wan- 
ing iridescence,  that  asked  for  regret. 

"Oh,  much  obliged!"  Irene  cried.  "That's  awful 
nice  of  you,  Eddie.  Duck  cook  awful  good.'* 

And  then  her  enthusiasm  ebbed,  for  she  caught 
the  look  of  Drury  Boldin  as  he  bent  down  and 
stroked  the  glossy  mantle  of  the  birds,  not  with  zest 
for  their  flavor,  nor  envy  of  the  skill  that  had  fetched 
them  from  the  sky,  but  with  sorrow  for  their  ended 
careers,  for  the  miracle  gone  out  of  their  wings,  and 
the  strange  fact  that  they  had  once  quawked  and 
chirruped  in  the  high  air  and  on  hidden  waters — 
and  would  never  fly  or  swim  again. 

237 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"I  wonder  if  they  had  souls,"  he  mumbled. 

Eddie  Crosson  winked  at  Irene.  There  was  no 
use  getting  mad  at  Drury.  Eddie  only  laughed: 

*  'Course  not,  you  darn  galoot!" 

"How  do  you  know?"  Drury  asked. 

"Anybody  knows  that  much,"  was  Crosson's  suf- 
ficient answer,  and  Drury  changed  to  another  topic. 
He  asked: 

"Did  it  hurt  'em  much  to  die?" 

'  'Course  not,"  Eddie  answered,  promptly.  "Not 
the  way  I  got  'em.  They  just  stopped  sailin*  and 
dropped.  I  lost  one,  though.  He  was  goin'  like 
sixty  when  I  drew  bead  on  him.  Light  wasn't  any 
too  good  and  I  just  nipped  one  wing.  You  ought  to 
seen  him  turning  somersets,  Reny.  He  lit  in  a 
swampy  spot,  though,  and  I  couldn't  find  him.  I 
hunted  for  an  hour  or  more,  but  I  couldn't  find  him 
and  it  was  growin'  dark,  so  I  come  home." 

Drury  spoke  up  quickly:   "You  didn't  kill  him?" 

"I  don't  guess  so.  He  was  workin'  mighty  hard 
when  he  flopped." 

"Oh,  that's  terrible!"  Drury  groaned.  "He  must 
be  layin'  out  there  now  somewheres — sufferin'.  Oh, 
that's  terrible!" 

"Aw,  what's  it  your  business?"  was  Crosson's  gruff 
comment.  But  there  was  uneasiness  in  his  tone,  for 
Drury  had  set  Irene  to  wringing  her  hands  nervously, 
and  Crosson  felt  a  trifle  uncomfortable  himself. 
Twilight  always  made  him  susceptible  to  emotions 
that  daylight  blinded  him  to,  as  to  the  stars. 

238 


PAIN 

He  remembered  that  boyhood  emotion  now  in  his 
pulpit,  and  his  shoulder-blades  twitched;  an  icy 
finger  seemed  to  have  written  something  on  them. 
He  was  casting  up  his  eyes  and  his  hands  in  a  fa- 
miliar gesture  and  quoting  a  familiar  text: 

"'Surely  he  shall  deliver  thee  from  the  snare  of 
the  fowler  and  from  the  noisome  pestilence.  He  shall 
cover  thee  with  his  feathers,  and  under  his  wings 
shalt  thou  trust." 

From  the  roof  of  the  church  he  seemed  to  see  that 
wounded  wild  duck  falling,  turning  in  air,  striking 
at  the  air  frantically  with  his  good  wing  and  feebly 
with  the  one  that  bled.  Down  he  fell,  struggling 
somewhere  among  the  pews. 

A  fantastic  notion  drifted  into  the  preacher's  mind 
— that  Satan  had  shot  up  a  bullet  from  hell  and  it 
had  lodged  among  the  feathers  of  Jehovah  the  pro- 
tector, and  He  was  falling  and  lost  among  that 
congregation  in  which  so  often  the  preacher  had 
failed  to  find  God. 

Doctor  Crosson  shook  his  head  violently  to  fling 
away  such  madnesses,  and  he  propounded  his  next 
"furthermore"  with  added  energy.  But  he  could 
not  shake  off  the  torment  in  the  recollection  of 
Drury  Boldin's  nagging  interest  in  that  wild  duck. 

II 

Drury  insisted  on  knowing  where  the  wild  duck 
fell,  and  Crosson  told  him  that  it  was  "near  where 

239 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

the  crick  emptied  into  the  sluice,  where  the  cat- 
tails grew  extra  high." 

He  went  on  home  to  his  supper,  but  the  thought 
of  the  suffering  bird  had  seized  his  mind;  it  flopped 
and  twisted  at  the  roots  of  his  thoughts. 

A  few  days  later  Drury  met  him  and  asked  him 
again  where  the  duck  had  fallen. 

"I  can't  find  it  where  you  said,"  he  said. 

"You  ain't  been  lookin'  for  it,  have  you?" 

"Yes,  for  days." 

"What  'd  you  do  if  you  found  it?"  Crosson  asked. 

"Kill  it,"  Drury  answered.  It  was  a  most  un- 
expectable  phrase  from  him. 

"That  sounds  funny,  comin'  from  you,"  Crosson 
snickered.  Then  he  spoke  grufHy  to  conceal  his  own 
misgivings.  "Aw,  it's  dead  long  ago." 

"I'd  feel  better  if  I  was  sure,"  said  Drury. 

Crosson  called  him  a  natural-born  idiot,  but  the 
next  day  Crosson  himself  was  across  the  river, 
dragged  by  a  queer  mood.  He  took  his  bearings 
from  the  spot  where  he  had  fired  his  shot-gun  and 
then  made  toward  the  place  where  the  duck  fell. 

He  stumbled  about  in  slime  and  snarl  for  an  hour 
in  vain.  Suddenly  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
something  floundering  through  the  reeds.  He  was 
afraid  that  it  might  be  a  wild  animal,  a  traditional 
bear  or  a  big  dog.  But  it  was  Drury  Boldin.  And 
Irene  Straley  was  with  him. 

They  were  covered  with  mud.  Crosson  was 
jealous  and  suspicious  and  indignant.  They  told 

240 


PAIN 

him  that  they  were  looking  for  the  hurt  bird.  He 
was  furious.  He  advised  them  to  go  along  about 
their  own  business.  It  was  his  bird. 

"Who  gave  it  to  you?"  Drury  answered,  with  a 
battling  look  in  his  soft  eyes. 

"The  Lord  and  my  shot-gun." 

"What  right  you  got  to  go  shootin*  wild  birds, 
anyway?"  Drury  demanded. 

Crosson  was  even  then  devoted  to  the  Bible  for 
its  majestic  music,  if  for  nothing  else.  He  quoted 
the  phrase  about  the  dominion  over  the  fowls  of  the 
air  given  to  man  for  his  use. 

Drury  would  not  venture  to  contradict  the 
Scriptures,  and  so  he  turned  away  silenced.  But  he 
continued  his  search.  And  Irene  followed  him. 

In  sullen  humor  Crosson  also  searched,  till  he 
heard  Drury  cry  out;  then  he  ran  to  see  what  he  had 
found. 

Irene  and  Drury  were  shrinking  back  from  some- 
thing that  even  the  son  of  Nimrod  regarded  with 
disquiet.  The  duck,  one  wing  caked  and  festered, 
and  busy  with  ants  and  adrone  with  flies,  was  still 
alive  after  all  those  many  days. 

Its  flat  bill  was  opening  and  shutting  in  hideous 
awkwardness,  its  hunger-emaciated  frame  rising  and 
falling  with  a  kind  of  lurching  breath,  and  the  film 
over  its  eyes  drawing  together  and  rolling  back 
miserably. 

At  the  sight  of  the  three  visitors  to  its  death- 
chamber  it  made  a  hopeless  effort  to  lift  itself  again 

241 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

to  the  air  of  its  security.  It  could  not  even  lift  its 
head. 

Drury  fell  to  one  knee  before  it,  and  a  swarm  of 
flies  zooned  angrily  away.  He  put  out  his  hand,  but 
he  was  afraid  to  touch,  and  he  only  added  panic  to 
the  bird's  wretchedness. 

He  rose  and  backed  away.  The  three  stood  off 
and  stared.  Crosson  felt  the  guilt  of  Cain,  but  when 
Irene  moaned,  "What  you  goin'  to  do?"  he  shook 
his  head.  He  could  not  finish  his  task. 

It  was  Drury  Boldin,  weak-kneed  and  putty-faced, 
who  went  hunting  now.  He  had  to  look  far  before 
he  found  a  heavy  rock.  He  lugged  it  back  and  said, 
"Go  on  away,  Reny." 

She  hurried  to  a  distance,  and  even  Crosson 
turned  his  head  aside. 

On  the  way  home  they  were  all  three  tired  and 
sick,  and  Drury  had  to  stop  every  now  and  then  to 
sit  down  and  get  strength  into  his  knees. 

But  there  was  a  sense  of  grim  relief  that  helped 
them  all,  and  the  bird,  once  safely  dead,  was  rapidly 
forgotten.  After  that  Crosson  seemed  to  lose  his 
place  in  Irene's  heart,  and  Drury  won  all  that  Cros- 
son lost,  and  more.  Before  long  it  was  understood 
that  Drury  and  Irene  had  agreed  to  get  married  as 
soon  as  he  could  earn  enough  to  keep  them.  All 
four  parents  opposed  the  match;  Irene's  because 
Drury  was  "no  'count,"  and  Drury's  for  much  the 
same  reason. 

Old  Boldin  allowed  that  Irene  would  be  added  to 

242 


PAIN 

his  family,  for  meals  and  lodgin',  if  she  married  his 
son;  and  old  Straley  guessed  that  it  would  be  the 
other  way  round,  and  the  Boldin  boy  would  come 
over  to  his  house  to  live. 

Also,  Drury  could  get  no  work  in  Carthage. 
Eventually  he  went  to  Chicago  to  try  his  luck  there. 
Crosson  seized  the  chance  to  try  to  get  back  to  Irene. 
One  Sunday  he  took  his  shot-gun  out  in  the  wilderness 
and  brought  down  a  duck  whose  throat  had  so  rich 
a  glimmer  that  he  believed  it  would  delight  Irene. 
He  took  it  to  her. 

She  was  out  in  her  garden,  and  she  looked  at  his 
gift  with  eyes  so  hurt  by  the  pity  of  the  bird's 
drooping  neck  that  they  were  blind  to  its  beauty. 

While  Crosson  stood  in  sheepish  dismay,  recog- 
nizing that  Drury  was  present  still  in  his  absence, 
the  minister  appeared  at  his  elbow.  It  was  not  the 
wrecked  career  of  the  fowl  that  shocked  the  pastor, 
but  the  broken  Sabbath. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Eddie,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  high 
time  you  were  beginning  to  take  life  seriously.  Come 
to  church  to-night  and  make  up  for  your  ungodliness." 

Crosson  consented.  It  was  a  good  way  of  making 
his  escape  from  Irene's  haunted  eyes. 

The  service  that  riight  had  little  influence  on  his 
heart,  but  a  month  later  a  revivalist  came  into 
Carthage  with  a  great  fanfare  of  attack  on  the  hosts 
of  Lucifer.  This  man  was  an  emotionalist  of  irre- 
sistible fire.  He  reasoned  less  than  he  sang.  His 
voice  was  as  thrilling  as  a  trombone,  and  his  words 

17  243 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

did  not  matter.  It  was  his  tone  that  made  the  heart 
resound  like  a  smitten  bell. 

The  revivalist  struck  unsuspected  chords  of  emo- 
tion in  Eddie  Crosson  and  made  him  weep!  But  he 
wept  tears  of  a  different  sort  from  the  waters  of 
grief.  His  unusual  tears  were  a  tribute  to  eloquence. 
Sonorous  words  and  noble  thoughts  thrilled  Eddie 
Crosson  then  as  ever  after. 

He  had  loved  to  speak  pieces  at  school.  Whether 
it  were  Spartacus  exhorting  his  brawny  slaves  to 
revolt,  or  Daniel  Webster  upholding  the  Union  now 
and  forever,  one  and  inseparable,  he  had  felt  an 
exaltation,  an  exultation  that  enlarged  him  to  the 
clouds.  He  loved  the  phrase  more  than  the  meaning. 
What  was  well  worded  was  well  reasoned. 

His  passion  for  elocution  had  inclined  him  at  first 
to  be  a  lawyer,  but  when  he  visited  the  county  court- 
house the  attorneys  he  listened  to  had  such  dull 
themes  to  expound  that  he  felt  no  call  to  the  law. 
What  glory  was  there  in  pleading  for  the  honor  of 
an  old  darky  chicken-thief  when  everybody  knew  at 
once  that  he  was  guilty  of  stealing  the  chickens  in 
question,  or  would  have  been  if  he  had  known  of 
their  accessibility?  What  rapture  was  there  in  in- 
sisting that  a  case  in  an  Alabama  court  eight  years 
before  furnished  an  exact  precedent  in  the  matter  of 
a  mechanic's  lien  in  Carthage? 

So  Crosson  chilled  toward  the  legal  profession. 
His  father  urged  him  to  come  into  the  Crosson  hard- 
ware emporium,  but  Eddie  hated  the  silent  trades. 

244 


PAIN 

The  revivalist  decided  him,  and  he  began  to  make 
his  heart  ready  for  the  clerical  life.  His  father  op- 
posed him  heathenishly  and  would  not  pay  for  his 
seminary  course. 

For  several  months  Crosson  waited  about,  be- 
calmed in  the  doldrums.  There  was  little  to  interest 
him  in  town  except  a  helpless  espionage  on  Irene's 
loyalty  to  Drury  Boldin.  Her  troth  defied  both 
time  and  space.  She  went  every  day  to  the  post- 
office  to  mail  a  heavy  letter  and  to  receive  the  heavy 
letter  she  was  sure  to  find  there. 

She  became  a  sort  of  tender  joke  at  the  post- 
office,  and  on  the  street  as  well,  for  she  always  read 
her  daily  letter  on  the  way  home.  She  would  be  so 
absorbed  in  the  petty  chronicles  of  Drury's  life  that 
she  would  stroll  into  people  and  bump  into  trees, 
or  fetch  up  short  against  a  fence.  She  sprained 
her  ankle  once  walking  off  the  walk.  And  once 
she  marched  plump  into  the  parson's  horrified 
bosom. 

Crosson  often  stood  in  ambush  so  that  she  would 
run  into  him.  She  was  very  soft  and  delicate,  and 
she  usually  had  flowers  pinned  at  her  breast. 

Crosson  would  grin  as  she  stumbled  against  him; 
then  the  lovelorn  girl  would  stare  up  at  him  through 
the  haze  of  the  distance  her  letter  had  carried  her  to, 
and  stammer  excuses  and  fall  back  and  blush,  and 
glide  round  him  on  her  way.  Crosson  would  laugh 
aloud,  bravely,  but  afterward  he  would  turn  and 
stare  at  her  solemnly  enough  when  she  resumed 

245 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

her  letter  and  strolled  on  in  the  rosy  cloud  of  her 
communion  with  her  far-off  "fellow." 

One  day  Crosson  had  to  run  after  her,  because 
when  she  thought  she  was  turning  into  her  own  yard 
her  absent  mind  led  her  to  unlatch  the  gate  to  a 
pasture  where  a  muley  cow  with  a  scandalous  temper 
was  waiting  for  her  with  swaying  head. 

Irene  laughed  at  her  escape,  with  an  unusual  mirth 
for  her.  She  explained  it  by  seizing  Crosson's  sleeve 
and  exclaiming: 

"Oh,  Eddie,  such  good  news  from  Drury  you  never 
heard!  He's  got  a  position  with  a  jewelry-store,  the 
biggest  in  Chicago.  And  they  put  him  in  the  de- 
signing department  at  ten  dollars  a  week,  and  they 
say  he's  got  a  future.  Isn't  it  simply  glorious?" 

She  held  Crosson  while  she  read  the  young  man's 
hallelujahs.  They  sounded  to  Crosson  like  a  funeral 
address. 

Irene's  mother  was  even  prouder  of  Drury's  suc- 
cess than  the  daughter  was.  She  bragged  now  of  the 
wedding  she  had  dreaded  before.  Finally  Irene  pro- 
claimed the  glorious  truth  that  Drury's  salary  had 
been  boosted  again  and  they  would  wait  no  longer 
for  wealth.  He  was  awful  busy,  and  so  he'd  just 
run  down  for  a  couple  of  days  and  marry  her  and 
run  back  with  her  to  Chicago  and  jewelry.  This 
arrangement  ended  Irene's  mother's  dreams  of  a  fine 
wedding  and  relieved  the  townspeople  of  the  expense 
of  wedding-presents. 

The  sudden  announcement  of  the  wedding  shocked 

246 


PAIN 

Crosson.  He  endured  a  jealousy  whose  intensity 
surprised  him  in  retrospect.  He  endured  a  good 
deal  of  humor,  too,  from  village  cut-ups,  who  teased 
him  because  his  best  girl  was  marrying  the  other 
fellow. 

Crosson  felt  a  need  of  solitude  and  a  fierce  desire 
to  kill  something.  He  got  his  abandoned  gun  and 
went  hunting  to  wear  out  his  wrath.  He  wore  him- 
self out,  at  least.  He  shot  savagely  at  all  sorts  of 
life.  He  followed  one  flitting,  sarcastic  blue-jay  with 
a  voice  like  a  village  cut-up,  all  the  way  home  with- 
out getting  near  enough  to  shoot. 

He  came  down  the  long  hill  with  the  sunset, 
bragging  to  himself  that  he  was  reconciled  to  Irene's 
marriage  with  anybody  she'd  a  mind  to. 

He  could  see  her  from  a  distance,  sitting  on  the 
porch  alone.  She  was  all  dressed  up  and  rocking 
impatiently.  Evidently  the  train  was  late  again,  as 
always.  From  where  he  was,  Crosson  could  see  the 
track  winding  around  the  hills  like  a  little  metal 
brook.  The  smoke  of  the  engine  was  not  yet  plum- 
ing along  the  horizon.  The  train  could  not  arrive 
for  some  minutes  yet. 

To  prove  his  freedom  from  rancor  and  his  emanci- 
pation from  love,  but  really  because  he  could  not 
resist  the  chance  to  have  a  last  word  with  Irene, 
he  went  across  lots  to  her  father's  back  yard  and 
came  round  to  the  porch.  He  forgot  to  draw  the 
shells  from  his  gun. 

In  the  sunset,  with  his  weapon  a-shoulder,  he  must 

247 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

have  looked  a  bit  wild,  for  Irene  jumped  when  he 
spoke  to  her.  He  sought  an  excuse  for  his  visit  and 
put  at  her  feet  the  game  he  had  bagged — a  squirrel, 
a  rabbit,  and  a  few  birds — the  last  he  ever  shot. 

The  moment  the  dead  things  were  there  he  re- 
gretted the  impulse.  He  was  reminded  of  his  pre- 
vious quarry  and  its  ill  success.  Irene  was  reminded, 
too,  for  she  thanked  him  timidly  and  asked  if  he  had 
left  any  wounded  birds  in  the  field.  He  laughed 
"No"  with  a  poor  grace. 

She  said:  "I'd  better  get  these  out  of  sight  before 
Drury  comes.  He  doesn't  like  to  see  such  things." 

She  lifted  them  distastefully  and  went  into  the 
house.  She  came  out  almost  at  once,  for  she  heard  a 
train.  But  it  was  not  the  passenger  swooping  south; 
it  was  the  freight  trudging  north.  There  was  only 
a  single  track  then,  and  no  block  system  of  signals. 

Irene  no  sooner  recognized  the  lumbering,  jostling 
drove  of  cattle-cars  and  flats  going  by  than  she 
gasped: 

"That  freight  ought  not  to  be  on  that  track — 
now!" 

She  was  frozen  with  dread.  Crosson  understood, 
too.  Then  from  the  distance  came  the  whistle  of 
the  express,  the  long  hurrah  of  its  approach  to  the 
station.  The  freight  engineer  answered  it  with  short, 
sharp  blasts  of  his  whistle.  He  kept  jabbing  the 
air  with  its  noise. 

There  was  the  grind  of  the  brakes  on  the  wheels. 
The  cars  tried  to  stop,  like  a  mob,  but  the  rear  cars 

248 


PAIN 

bunted  the  front  cars  forward  irresistibly.  The 
cattle  aboard  lowed  and  bellowed.  The  brakemen, 
quaint  silhouettes  against  the  red  sky,  ran  along  the 
tops  of  the  box-cars,  twisting  the  brake-wheels. 

Irene  stumbled  down  the  steps  and  dashed  across 
the  pastures  toward  the  jutting  hill  that  she  had  so 
often  seen  the  express  sweep  round.  Crosson  fol- 
lowed. 

They  came  to  a  fence.  She  could  not  climb,  she 
was  trembling  so.  Crosson  had  to  help  her  over. 
She  ran  on,  and  as  he  sprawled  after,  he  nearly  dis- 
charged the  gun. 

He  brought  it  along  by  habit  as  he  followed  Irene, 
who  ran  and  ran,  waving  her  arms  as  if  she  would 
stop  the  express  with  her  naked  hands. 

But  long  before  they  reached  the  tracks  the  ex- 
press roared  round  the  headland  and  plunged  into 
the  freight.  The  two  locomotives  met  and  rose  up 
and  wrestled  like  two  black  bears,  and  fell  over. 
The  cars  were  scattered  and  jumbled  like  a  baby's 
train.  They  were  all  of  wood — heated  by  soft-coal 
stoves  and  lighted  by  coal-oil  lamps. 

The  wreck  was  the  usual  horror,  the  usual  chaos 
of  wanton  destruction  and  mysterious  escape.  The 
engineers  stuck  to  their  engines  and  were  involved  in 
their  ruin  somewhere.  The  passenger-train  was 
crowded,  and  destruction  showed  no  favoritism:  old 
men,  women,  children,  sheep,  horses,  cows,  were 
maimed,  or  killed,  or  left  scot-free. 

Some  of  those  who  were  uninjured  ran  away. 

249 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

Some  stood  weeping.  Some  of  the  wounded  began 
at  once  to  rescue  others.  Crosson  stood  gaping  at 
the  spectacle,  but  Irene  went  into  the  wreckage, 
pawing  and  peering  like  a  terrier. 

She  could  not  find  what  she  was  looking  for.  She 
would  bend  and  stare  into  a  face  glaring  under  the 
timbers  and  maundering  for  help,  then  pass  on. 
She  would  turn  over  a  twisted  frame  and  let  it  roll 
back.  She  was  not  a  sister  of  charity;  she  was 
Drury  Boldin's  helpmeet. 

She  kept  calling  his  name,  "Drury — Drury — 
Drury!"  Crosson  watched  her  as  she  poised  to 
listen  for  the  answer  that  did  not  come.  He  gaped 
at  her  in  stupid  fascination  till  a  brakeman  shook 
him  and  ordered  him  to  lend  a  hand.  He  rested  his 
gun  against  a  pile  of  ties  and  bowed  his  shoulder 
to  the  hoisting  of  a  beam  overhanging  a  woman  and 
a  suckling  babe. 

The  helpers  dislodged  other  beams  and  finished 
the  lives  they  had  meant  to  save. 

There  were  no  physicians  on  the  train.  But  a 
doctor  or  two  from  the  town  came  out  and  the 
others  were  sent  for.  A  telegram  was  sent  to 
summon  a  relief-train,  but  it  could  not  arrive  for 
hours. 

The  doctors  began  at  the  beginning,  but  they 
could  do  little.  Their  own  lives  were  in  constant 
danger  from  tumbling  wreckage,  for  the  rescuers 
were  playing  a  game  of  tragic  jackstraws.  The  least 
mistake  brought  down  disaster. 

250 


PAIN 

As  he  worked,  Crosson  could  hear  Irene  calling, 
calling,  "Drury,  Drury,  Drury!" 

He  left  his  task  to  follow  her,  his  jealousy  turned 
into  a  wild  sorrow  for  her. 

At  last  he  heard  in  her  cry  of  "Drury!"  a  note 
that  meant  she  had  found  him.  But  such  a  wel- 
come as  it  was  for  a  bride  to  give!  And  such  a 
try  sting-place! 

The  car  Drury  was  in  had  turned  a  somersault 
and  cracked  open  across  another.  Its  inverted 
wheels  on  their  trucks  had  made  a  bower  of  steel 
about  the  bridegroom.  The  flames  from  the  stove 
and  from  the  oil-lamps  were  blooming  like  hell- 
flowers  everywhere.  And  the  wind  that  fanned  the 
blazes  was  blowing  clouds  of  scalding  steam  from 
the  crumpled  boilers  of  the  two  engines. 

Crosson  ran  to  Irene's  side.  She  was  trying  to 
clamber  through  a  trellis  of  iron  and  splintered  wood. 
She  was  stretching  her  hand  out  to  Drury,  where  he 
lay  unconscious,  deep  in  the  clutter.  Crosson 
dragged  her  away  from  a  flame  that  swung  toward 
her.  She  struck  his  hand  aside  and  thrust  her  body 
into  the  danger  again. 

Crosson,  finding  no  water,  began  to  shovel  loose 
earth  on  the  blaze  with  a  sharp  plank  from  the  side 
of  a  car.  Finding  that  she  could  not  reach  her  lover, 
Irene  turned  and  begged  Crosson  to  run  for  help 
and  for  the  doctors. 

He  ran,  but  the  doctors  refused  to  leave  the  work 
they  had  in  hand,  and  the  other  men  growled: 

251 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Everybody's  got  to  take  their  turn." 

Crosson  ran  back  to  Irene  with  the  news.  Drury 
had  just  emerged  from  the  merciful  swoon  of  shock 
to  the  frenzies  of  his  splintered  bones,  lacerated 
flesh  and  blistered  skin,  and  the  threat  of  his  infernal 
environment. 

The  last  exquisite  fiendishness  was  the  sight  of  his 
sweetheart  as  witness  to  his  agony,  her  face  lighted 
up  by  the  flames  that  were  ravening  toward  him,  her 
hands  hungering  toward  him,  just  beyond  the 
stretch  of  his  one  free  arm. 

Crosson  heard  the  lovers  murmur  to  each  other 
across  that  little  abyss.  He  flung  himself  against 
the  barriers  like  a  madman.  But  his  hands  were 
futile  against  the  tangle  of  joists  and  hot  steel. 

Irene  saw  him  working  alone  and  asked  him  where 
the  others  were,  and  the  doctors. 

"They  wouldn't  come!"  Crosson  groaned,  ashamed 
of  their  ugly  sense  of  justice. 

The  girl's  face  took  on  a  look  of  grim  ferocity. 
She  said  to  Crosson: 

"Your  gun — where  is  it?" 

He  pointed  to  where  he  had  left  it.  It  had  fallen 
to  the  ground. 

She  ran  and  seized  it  up,  and  holding  it  awkwardly 
but  with  menace,  advanced  on  a  doctor  who  toiled 
with  sleeves  rolled  high,  and  face  and  beard  and 
arms  blotched  with  red  grime. 

She  thrust  the  muzzle  into  his  chest  and  spoke 
hoarsely: 

252 


PAIN 

"Doctor  Lane,  you  come  with  me." 

"I'm  busy  here,"  he  growled,  pushing  the  gun 
aside,  hardly  knowing  what  it  was. 

She  jammed  it  against  his  heart  again  and  cried, 
"Come  with  me  or  I'll  kill  you!" 

He  followed  her,  wondering  rather  than  fearing, 
and  she  swept  a  group  of  men  with  the  weapon,  and 
commanded,  "You  men  come,  too."  She  marched 
them  to  the  spot  where  Drury  was  concealed,  and 
pointed  to  him  and  snarled,  "Get  him  out!" 

The  men  tested  their  strength  here  and  there  with- 
out promise  of  success.  One  group  started  a  heap 
of  wheels  to  slewing  downward  and  Crosson  shouted 
to  them  to  stop.  An  inch  more,  and  they  would 
have  buried  Drury  from  sight  or  hope. 

One  man  wormed  through  somehow  and  caught 
Drury  by  the  hand,  but  the  first  tug  brought  from 
him  such  a  wail  of  anguish  that  the  man  fell  back. 
He  could  not  budge  the  body  clamped  with  steel. 
He  could  only  wrench  it.  So  he  came  away. 

"There's  nothing  for  me  to  do,  Reny,"  the  doctor 
faltered,  and,  choked  with  pity  for  her  and  her  lover 
and  the  helplessness  of  mankind,  he  turned  away, 
and  she  let  him  go.  The  gun  fell  to  the  ground. 

The  other  men  left  the  place.  One  of  them  said 
that  the  wrecking-crew  would  be  along  with  a 
derrick  in  a  few  hours. 

"A  few  hours!"  Irene  whimpered. 

She  leaned  against  the  lattice  that  kept  her  from 
the  bridegroom  and  tried  to  tell  him  to  be  brave. 

253 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

But  he  had  heard  his  sentence,  and  with  his  last 
hope  went  what  little  courage  he  had  ever  had. 

He  began  to  plead  and  protest  and  weep.  He  gave 
voice  to  all  the  voices  of  pain,  the  myriad  voices 
from  every  tormented  particle  of  him. 

Irene  knelt  down  and  twisted  through  the  crevice 
to  where  she  could  hold  his  hand.  But  he  snatched 
it  away,  babbling:  "Don't  touch  me!  Don't  touch 
me!" 

Crosson  stayed  near,  dreading  lest  Irene's  skirts 
should  catch  fire.  Twice  he  beat  them  out  with  his 
hands.  She  had  not  noticed  that  they  were  aflame. 
She  was  murmuring  love-words  of  odious  vanity  to 
one  who  almost  forgot  her  existence,  centered  in  the 
glowing  sphere  of  his  own  hell. 

Drury  rolled  and  panted  and  gibbered,  cursed 
even,  with  lips  more  used  to  gentle  words  and  prayers. 
He  prayed,  too,  but  with  sacrilege: 

"O  Lord,  spare  me  this.  O  God,  have  a  little 
mercy.  Send  rain,  send  help,  lift  this  mountain 
from  me  just  till  I  can  breathe.  O  God,  if  You  have 
any  mercy  in  Your  heart — but  no,  no — no,  no,  You 
let  Your  own  Son  hang  on  the  cross,  didn't  You? 
He  asked  You  why  You  had  deserted  Him,  and  You 
didn't  answer,  did  You?'* 

Crosson  looked  up  to  see  a  thunderbolt  split  the 
dark  sky,  but  the  stars  were  agleam  now,  twinkling 
about  the  moon's  serenity. 

Irene  put  her  fingers  across  Drury's  lips  to  hush 
his  blasphemy.  She  tore  her  face  with  her  nails,  and 

254 


PAIN 

tried  for  his  sake  to  stifle  the  sobs  that  smote  through 
her. 

By  and  by  Dairy's  voice  grew  hoarse,  and  he 
whispered.  She  bent  close  and  heard.  She  called 
to  Crosson : 

"Run  get  the  doctor  to  give  him  something — 
some  morphine  or  something — quick.  Every  second 
is  agony  for  my  poor  boy.'* 

Crosson  ran  to  the  doctor.  He  stood  among 
writhing  bodies  and  shook  his  head  dismally.  He 
was  saying  as  Crosson  came  up: 

"I'm  sorry,  I'm  awful  sorry,  folks,  but  the  last 
grain  of  morphine  is  gone.  The  drug-stores  haven't 
got  any  more.  We've  telegraphed  to  the  next  town. 
You'll  just  have  to  stand  it." 

Crosson  went  back  slowly  with  that  heavy  burden 
of  news.  He  whispered  it  to  Irene,  but  Drury  heard 
him,  and  a  shriek  of  despair  went  from  him  like  a 
flash  of  fire.  New  blazes  sprang  up  with  an  impish 
merriment.  Crosson,  fearing  for  Irene's  safety, 
fought  at  them  with  earth  and  with  water  that  boys 
fetched  from  distances,  and  at  last  extinguished  the 
immediate  fire. 

The  bystanders  worked  elsewhere,  but  Crosson 
lingered  to  protect  Irene.  In  the  dark  he  could 
hear  Drury  whispering  something  to  her. 

He  pleaded,  wheedled,  kissed  her  hand,  mumbled 
it  like  a  dog,  reasoned  with  her  insanely,  while  she 
trembled  all  over,  a  shivering  leaf  on  a  blown  twig. 

Crosson  could  hear  occasional  phrases:  "If  you 

255 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

love  me,  you  will — if  you  love  me,  Reny.  What  do 
you  want  me  to  suffer  for,  honey?  You  don't  want 
me  just  to  suffer — just  to  suffer,  do  you — you  don't, 
do  you?  Reny  honey,  Reny?  You  say  you  love  me, 
and  you  won't  do  the  thing  that  will  help  me.  You 
don't  love  me.  That's  it,  you  don't  really  love  me!" 

She  turned  to  Crosson  at  last  and  moaned:  "He 
wants  me  to  kill  him!  What  can  I  do?  Oh, 
what  is  there  to  do?" 

Crosson  could  not  bear  to  look  in  her  eyes.  He 
could  not  bear  the  sound  of  Drury's  voice.  He  could 
not  even  debate  that  problem.  He  was  cravenly  glad 
when  somebody's  hand  seized  him  and  a  rough  voice 
called  him  away  to  other  toil.  He  slunk  off. 

There  were  miseries  enough  wherever  he  went, 
but  they  were  the  miseries  of  strangers.  He  could 
not  forget  Irene  and  the  riddle  of  duty  that  was  hers. 
He  avoided  the  spot  where  she  was  closeted  with 
grief,  and  worked  remote  in  the  glimmer  from  bon- 
fires lighted  in  the  fields  alongside. 

The  fire  in  the  wreck  was  out  now,  save  that  here 
and  there  little  blazes  appeared,  only  to  be  quenched 
at  once.  But  smoldering  timbers  crackled  like 
rifle-shots,  and  there  were  thunderous  slidings  of 
wreckage. 

Irene's  mother  and  father  had  stood  off  at  a  dis- 
tance for  a  long  time,  but  at  length  they  missed 
Irene  and  came  over  to  question  Crosson.  He  knew 
that  Irene  would  not  wish  them  present  at  such 
obsequies,  and  he  told  them  she  had  gone  home. 

256 


PAIN 

After  a  time,  curiosity  nagged  him  into  approach- 
ing her  hiding-place.  He  listened,  and  there  was  no 
sound.  He  peered  in  and  dimly  descried  Drury. 
He  was  not  moving;  he  might  have  been  asleep. 
Irene  might  have  been  asleep,  too,  for  she  lay  hud- 
dled up  in  what  space  there  was. 

Crosson  knelt  down  and  crawled  in.  She  was  un- 
conscious. He  touched  Drury  with  a  dreading  hand, 
which  drew  quickly  back  as  from  a  contact  with  ice. 

A  kind  of  panic  seized  Crosson.  He  backed  out 
quickly  and  dragged  Irene  away  with  him  in  awk- 
ward desperation. 

As  her  body  came  forth,  his  gun  came  too.  He 
thought  it  had  lain  outside.  He  caught  it  and  broke 
it  at  the  breech,  ejecting  the  two  shells;  one  of 
them  was  empty.  He  threw  it  into  the  wreck  and 
pocketed  the  other  shell  and  tossed  the  gun  under  a 
stack  of  wreckage. 

He  was  trying  to  revive  Irene  when  her  father 
and  mother  came  back  anxiously  to  say  that  she 
was  not  at  home.  Her  mother  dropped  down  at  her 
side. 

Crosson  left  Irene  with  her  own  people.  He  did 
not  want  to  see  her  or  hear  her  when  she  came  back 
to  this  miserable  world.  He  did  not  want  her  even 
to  know  what  he  knew. 

in 

Crosson  had  tried  afterward  to  forget.  It  had 
been  hard  at  first,  but  in  time  he  had  forgotten. 

257 


IN  A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  had  gone  to  a  theological  school  and  learned  to 
chide  people  for  their  complaints  and  to  administer 
well-phrased  anodynes.  During  his  vacations  he  had 
avoided  Irene.  When  he  had  been  graduated  he 
had  been  first  pulpited  in  a  far-off  city. 

Years  afterward  he  had  been  invited  to  supply  an 
empty  pulpit  in  his  home  town.  He  had  not  suc- 
ceeded with  life.  He  lacked  the  flame  or  the  luck 
or  the  tact — something.  He  had  come  back  to  the 
place  he  started  from.  He  had  renewed  old  ac- 
quaintances, laughed  over  the  ancient  jokes,  and  said 
he  was  sorry  for  those  who  had  had  misfortune. 
When  he  met  Irene  Straley  he  hardly  recalled  his 
love,  except  to  smile  at  it  as  a  boyish  whim.  He  had 
forgotten  the  pangs  of  that  as  one  forgets  almost  all 
his  yester  aches.  He  had  forgotten  the  pains  he  had 
seen  others  suffer,  even  more  easily  than  he  forgot 
his  own. 

To-day  his  sermon  on  the  triviality  of  bodily  dis- 
comfort had  flung  Irene  Straley  back  into  the  caldron 
of  that  old  torment.  She  had  made  that  silent  pro- 
test against  the  iniquitous  cruelty  of  his  preachment. 
She  had  dragged  him  backward  into  the  living  pres- 
ence of  his  past. 

She  had  not  forgotten.  She  had  been  faithful  to 
Drury  Boldin  while  he  was  working  in  a  distant 
city.  She  was  faithful  to  him  still  in  that  Farthest 
Country.  She  had  the  genius  of  remembrance. 

These  were  Doctor  Crosson's  ulterior  thoughts 
while  he  harangued  his  flock  visibly  and  audibly. 

258 


PAIN 

His  thoughts  had  not  needed  the  time  their  telling 
requires.  They  gave  him  back  his  scenes  in  pic- 
tures, not  in  words;  in  heartaches  and  heartbreaks 
and  terrors  and  longings,  not  in  limping  syllables  that 
mock  the  vision  with  their  ineptitude. 

He  felt  anew  what  he  had  felt  and  seen,  and  he 
could  not  give  any  verve  to  the  peroration  of  his 
sermon.  He  could  not  even  change  it.  It  had  been 
effective  when  he  had  preached  it  previously.  But 
now  he  parroted  with  unconscious  irony  the  phrases 
he  had  once  so  admired.  He  came  to  the  last  word. 

"And  so,  to  repeat:  How  much  more  bitter, 
dearly  beloved,  are  the  anguishes  of  the  soul  than 
any  mere  bodily  distress!  What  are  the  fleeting 
torments  of  this  tenement  of  clay,  mere  bone  and 
flesh,  to  the  soul's  despair?  Nothing,  nothing." 

His  congregation  felt  a  lack  of  warmth  in  his  tone. 
His  hand  fell  limply  on  the  Bible  and  the  sermon  was 
done.  The  only  stir  was  one  of  relief  at  its  con- 
clusion. 

He  gave  out  the  final  hymn,  and  he  sat  through 
it  while  the  people  dragged  it  to  the  end.  He  gave 
forth  the  benediction  "in  the  name  of  the  Father 
and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  and  he  made 
short  work  of  the  dawdlers  who  waited  to  exchange 
stupidities  with  him.  He  took  refuge  from  his  con- 
gregation in  his  study,  locked  the  door,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  meditation. 

Somehow  pain  had  suddenly  come  to  mean  more 
to  him  than  it  had  yet  meant.  He  had  known  it, 

18  259 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

groaned  under  it,  lived  it  down,  and  let  it  go.  He 
had  felt  sorry  for  other  people  and  got  rid  of  their 
woes  as  best  as  he  could  with  the  trite  expressions  in 
use,  and  had  forgotten  whether  they  were  hushed  by 
health  or  by  death. 

And  so  he  had  let  the  old-fashioned  hell  go  by 
with  other  dogmas  out  of  style.  He  had  fashioned 
,  a  new  Hades  to  frighten  people  with,  that  they  might 
not  find  sin  too  attractive  and  imperilous. 

Now  he  was  suddenly  convinced  that  if  there  must 
be  hell,  it  must  be  such  as  Dante  set  to  rhyme  and 
the  old  hard-shell  preachers  preached:  a  region 
where  flames  sear  and  demons  pluck  at  the  frantic 
nerves,  playing  upon  them  fiendish  tunes. 

Yet  he  could  not  reconcile  that  hell  with  the  God 
that  made  the  lilac-bush  whose  purple  clusters  shook 
perfume  and  little  flowers  against  his  window-sill, 
while  the  old  locust  in  rivalry  bent  down  and  flaunted 
against  the  lilacs  its  pendants  of  ivory  grace  and 
heavenly  fragrance. 

Against  that  torment  of  beauty  came  glimpses  of 
Drury  and  Irene  in  the  lurid  cavern  under  the 
wreck.  Beyond  those  delicate  blossoms  he  imagined 
the  battle-fields  of  Europe  and  the  ruined  vessels 
where  hurt  souls  writhed  in  multitudes. 

He  could  not  be  satisfied  with  any  theory  of  the 
world.  He  could  not  find  that  pain  was  punishment 
here,  or  see  how  it  could  follow  the  soul  after  the 
soul  had  left  behind  it  the  fleshly  instrument  of 
torture.  The  why  of  it  escaped  his  reason  utterly; 

260 


PAIN 

for  Drury  had  been  good,  and  he  had  come  upon  an 
honorable  errand  when  he  fell  into  the  pit. 

Doctor  Crosson  stood  at  his  window  and  begged 
the  placid  sky  for  information.  He  looked  through 
the  lilacs  and  the  locusts  and  all  the  green  wilderness 
where  beauty  beat  and  throbbed  like  a  heart  in  bliss. 
It  was  the  Sabbath,  and  he  was  not  sure.  But  he 
was  sure  of  a  melting  tenderness  in  his  heart  for 
Irene  Straley,  and  he  felt  that  her  power  to  feel 
sorry  for  her  lover — sorry  enough  to  defy  all  the 
laws  in  his  behalf — was  a  wonderful  power.  He 
longed  for  her  sympathy. 

By  and  by  he  began  to  feel  a  pain,  the  pain  of 
Drury  Boldin.  He  was  glad.  He  groaned.  "I 
hurt!  I  hope  that  I  may  hurt  terribly." 

Suddenly  it  seemed  that  he  actually  was  Drury 
Boldin  in  the  throes  of  every  fierce  and  spasmic  thrill. 
Again  he  most  vividly  was  Irene  Straley  watching 
her  lover  till  she  could  not  endure  his  torture  or  her 
own,  and  with  one  desperate  challenge  sent  him  back 
to  the  mystery  whence  he  came. 

Doctor  Crosson,  when  he  came  back  to  himself, 
could  not  solve  that  mystery  or  any  mystery.  He 
knew  one  reality,  that  it  hurts  to  be  alive;  that  every- 
body is  always  hurting,  and  that  human  heart  must 
help  human  heart  as  best  it  can.  Pain  is  the  one 
inescapable  fact;  the  rest  is  theory.  .  .  .  He  prayed 
with  a  deeper  fervor  than  he  had  ever  known: 

"God  give  me  pain,  that  I  may  understand,  that 
I  may  understand!" 

261 


THE   BEAUTY  AND  THE  FOOL 

THERE  was  once  a  beautiful  woman,  and  she 
lived  in  a  small  town,  though  people  said  that 
she  belonged  rather  in  a  great  city,  where  her  gifts 
would  bring  her  glory,  riches,  and  a  brilliant  mar- 
riage. In  repose,  she  was  superb;  in  motion,  quite 
perfectly  beautiful  of  form  and  carriage,  with  all  the 
suave  rhythms  of  a  beautiful  being. 

Her  beauty  was  her  sole  opulence;  the  boast  of 
her  friends;  the  confession  of  her  enemies;  the  mag- 
net of  many  lovers;  the  village's  one  statue.  She 
had  an  ordinary  heart,  quite  commonplace  brains, 
but  beauty  that  lined  the  pathway  where  she  walked 
with  eyes  of  admiration  and  delight. 

In  her  town,  among  her  suitors,  was  one  that 
was  a  Fool — not  a  remarkable  fool;  a  simple,  com- 
monplace fool  of  the  sort  that  abounds  even  in  vil- 
lages. He  was  foolish  enough  to  love  the  Beauty 
so  completely  that  when  he  made  sure  that  she 
would  not  love  him  he  could  not  endure  to  remain 
in  the  village,  but  went  far  away  in  the  West  to  get 
the  torment  of  her  beauty  out  of  his  sight.  The 
other  suitors,  who  were  wiser  than  he,  when  they 
found  that  she  was  not  for  them,  gave  her  up  with 

262 


THE    BEAUTY   AND   THE    FOOL 

mild  regret  as  one  gives  up  a  fabulous  dream,  saying: 
"There  was  no  hope  for  us,  anyway.  If  the  Fool 
had  stayed  at  home  he  would  have  been  saved  from 
the  sight  of  her,  for  she  is  going  East,  where  there 
are  great  fortunes  for  the  very  beautiful." 

And  this  she  made  ready  to  do,  since  the  praise 
she  had  received  had  bred  ambition  in  her — a 
reasonable  and  right  ambition,  for  why  should  a 
light  be  hidden  under  a  bushel  when  it  might  be 
set  up  on  high  to  illumine  a  wide  garden?  Be- 
sides, she  had  not  learned  to  love  any  of  the  un- 
important men  who  loved  her  important  beauty, 
yet  promised  it  nothing  more  than  a  bushel  to  hide 
itself  in. 

So  she  made  ready  to  take  her  beauty  to  the 
larger  market-place.  But  the  night  before  she  was  to 
leave  the  village  her  father's  house  took  fire  mys- 
teriously. The  servant,  rushing  to  her  door  to 
waken  her,  died,  suffocated  there  before  she  could 
cry  out.  The  Beauty  woke  to  find  her  bed  in  flames. 
She  rose  with  hair  and  gown  ablaze,  and,  agonizing 
to  a  window,  leaped  blindly  out  upon  the  pavement. 
There  the  neighbors  quenched  the  fire  and  saved  her 
life — but  nothing  more. 

Thereafter  she  was  a  cripple,  and  her  vaunted 
beauty  was  dead;  it  had  gone  into  the  flames,  and 
she  had  only  the  ashes  of  it  on  her  seared  face. 
Now  she  had  only  pity  where  she  had  had  envy  and 
adulation.  Now  there  was  a  turning  away  of  eyes 
when  she  hurried  abroad  on  necessary  errands.  Now 

263 


her  enemies  were  tenderly  disposed  toward  her,  and 
everybody  forbore  to  mention  what  she  had  been. 
Everybody  spared  her  feelings  and  talked  of  other 
things  and  looked  at  the  floor  or  at  the  sky  when  she 
must  be  spoken  to. 

One  day  the  Fool,  having  heard  only  that  the 
Beauty  was  to  leave  the  village,  and  having  heard 
nothing  of  the  fire,  and  not  having  prospered  where 
he  was,  returned  to  his  old  home.  The  first  person 
he  saw  he  asked  of  the  Beauty,  and  that  one  told 
him  of  the  holocaust  of  her  graces,  and  warned  him, 
remembering  that  the  Fool  had  always  spoken  his 
thoughts  without  tact  or  discretion — warned  the 
Fool  to  disguise  when  he  saw  her  the  shock  he  must 
feel  and  make  no  sign  that  he  found  her  other  than 
he  left  her.  And  the  Fool  promised. 

When  he  saw  her  he  made  a  pretense  indeed  of 
greeting  her  as  before,  but  he  was  like  a  man  trying 
to  look  upon  a  fog  as  upon  a  sunrise;  for  the  old 
beauty  of  her  face  did  not  strike  his  eyes  full  of  its 
own  radiance.  She  saw  the  struggle  of  his  smile 
and  the  wincing  of  his  soul.  But  she  did  not  wince, 
for  she  was  by  now  bitterly  accustomed  to  this 
reticence  and  self-control. 

He  walked  along  the  street  with  her,  and  looked 
always  aside  or  ahead  and  talked  of  other  things. 
He  walked  with  her  to  her  own  gate,  and  to  her 
porch,  trying  to  find  some  light  thing  to  say  to  leave 
her.  But  the  cruelty  of  the  world  was  like  a  rusty 
nail  in  his  heart,  and  when  he  put  out  his  hand  and 

264 


she  set  in  his  hand  what  her  once  so  exquisite  fingers 
were  now,  his  heart  broke  in  his  breast;  and  when  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  what  her  once  so  triumphant  face 
was  now,  they  refused  to  withhold  their  tears,  and 
his  lips  could  not  hold  back  his  thoughts,  and  he 
groaned  aloud: 

"Oh,  you  were  so  beautiful!  No  one  was  ever  so 
beautiful  as  you  were  then.  But  now — I  can't  stand 
it!  I  can't  stand  it!  I  wish  that  I  might  have  died 
for  you.  You  were  so  beautiful!  I  can  see  you  now 
as  you  were  when  I  told  you  good-by." 

Then  he  was  afraid  for  what  he  had  said,  and 
ashamed,  and  he  dreaded  to  look  at  her  again.  He 
would  have  dashed  away,  but  she  seized  him  by  the 
sleeve,  and  whispered: 

"How  good  it  is  to  hear  your  words!  You  are  the 
only  one  that  has  told  me  that  I  ever  was  beautiful 
since  I  became  what  I  am.  Tell  me,  tell  me  how  I 
looked  when  you  bade  me  good-by!" 

And  he  told  her.  Looking  aside  or  at  the  sky,  he 
told  her  of  her  face  like  a  rose  in  the  moonlight,  of  her 
hair  like  some  mist  spun  and  woven  in  shadows  and 
glamours  of  its  own,  of  her  long  creamy  arms  and  her 
hands  that  a  god  had  fashioned  lovingly.  He  told 
her  of  her  eyes  and  their  deeps,  and  their  lashes  and 
the  brows  above  them.  He  told  her  of  the  strange 
rhythm  of  her  musical  form  when  she  walked  or 
danced  or  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

He  dared  not  look  at  her  lest  he  lose  his  remem- 
brance of  them;  but  he  heard  her  laughing,  softly  at 

265 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

first,  then  with  pride  and  wild  triumph.  And  she 
crushed  his  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it,  murmuring: 
"God  bless  you!  God  bless  you!" 

For  even  in  poverty  it  is  sweet  to  know  that  once 
we  were  rich. 


THE  GHOSTLY  COUNSELORS 


IN  a  little  hall  bedroom  in  a  big  city  lay  a  little 
woman  in  a  big  trouble.  She  had  taken  the  room 
under  an  assumed  name,  and  a  visitor  had  come  to 
her  there — to  little  her  in  the  big  city,  from  the 
bigger  unknown. 

She  had  taken  the  room  as  "Mrs.  Emerton." 
The  landlady,  Mrs.  Rotch,  had  had  her  doubts.  But 
then  she  was  liberal-minded — folks  had  to  be  in  that 
street.  Still,  she  made  it  an  invariable  rule  that 
"no  visitors  was  never  allowed  in  rooms,"  a  parlor 
being  kept  for  the  purpose  up  to  ten  o'clock,  when 
the  landlady  went  to  bed  in  it,  "her  having  to  have 
her  sleep  as  well  as  anybody." 

But,  in  spite  of  the  rules,  a  visitor  had  come  to 
"Mrs.  Emerton's"  room — a  very,  very  young  man. 
His  only  name  as  yet  was  "the  Baby."  She  dared 
not  give  the  young  man  his  father's  name,  for  then 
people  would  know,  and  she  had  come  to  the  city 
to  keep  people  from  knowing.  She  had  come  to  the 
wicked  city  from  the  sweet,  wholesome  country, 
where,  according  to  fiction,  there  is  no  evil,  but  where, 
according  to  fact,  people  are  still  people  and  moon- 

267 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

light  is  still  madness.     In  the  country,  love  could  be 
concealed  but  not  its  consequence. 

Her  coadjutor  in  the  ceremony  of  summoning  this 
little  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep  had  not  followed  her 
to  the  city  where  the  miracle  was  achieved.  He  was 
poor,  and  his  parents  would  have  been  broken- 
hearted; his  employer  in  the  village  would  have 
taken  away  his  seven-dollar-a-week  job. 

So  the  boy  sent  the  girl  to  town  alone,  with  what 
money  he  had  saved  up  and  what  little  he  could 
borrow;  and  he  stayed  in  the  village  to  earn  more. 

The  girl's  name  was  Lightfoot — Hilda  Lightfoot — 
a  curiously  prophetic  name  for  her  progress  in  the 
primrose  path,  though  she  had  gone  heavy-footed 
enough  afterward.  And  now  she  could  hardly  walk 
at  all. 

Hilda  Lightfoot  had  come  to  the  city  in  no  mood 
to  enjoy  its  frivolities,  and  with  no  means.  She  had 
climbed  the  four  flights  to  her  room  a  few  days  ago 
for  the  last  time.  In  all  the  weeks  and  weeks  she 
had  never  had  a  caller,  except,  the  other  day,  a  doctor 
and  a  nurse,  who  had  taken  away  most  of  her  money 
and  left  her  this  little  clamorous  youth,  whose  victim 
she  was  as  he  was  hers. 

To-night  she  was  desperately  lonely.  Even  the 
baby's  eternal  demands  and  uproars  were  hushed  in 
sleep.  She  felt  strong  enough  now  to  go  out  into  the 
wonderful  air  of  the  city;  the  breeze  was  as  soft  and 
moonseeped  as  the  blithe  night  wind  that  blew  across 
the  meadows  at  home. 

268 


THE    GHOSTLY    COUNSELORS 

The  crowds  went  by  the  window  and  teased  her 
like  a  circus  parade  marching  past  a  school. 

But  she  could  not  go  to  circuses — she  had  no 
money.  All  she  had  was  a  nameless,  restless  baby. 

She  grew  frantically  lonely.  She  went  almost  out 
of  her  head  from  her  solitude,  the  jail-like  loneliness, 
with  no  one  to  talk  to  except  her  little  fellow- 
prisoner  who  could  not  talk. 

Her  homesick  heart  ran  back  to  the  home  life  she 
was  exiled  from.  She  was  thinking  of  the  village. 
It  was  prayer-meeting  night,  and  the  moon  would 
wait  outside  the  church  like  Mary's  white-fleeced 
lamb  till  the  service  was  over,  and  then  it  would  fol- 
low the  couples  home,  gamboling  after  them  when 
they  walked,  and,  when  they  paused,  waiting  pa- 
tiently about. 

The  moon  was  a  lone  white  lamb  on  a  shadowy 
hill  all  spotted  with  daisies.  Everything  in  the  world 
was  beautiful  except  her  fate,  her  prison,  her  poverty, 
and  her  loneliness. 

If  only  she  could  go  down  from  this  dungeon  into 
the  streets!  If  only  she  had  some  clothes  to  wear 
and  knew  somebody  who  would  take  her  somewhere 
where  there  was  light  and  music!  It  was  not  much 
to  ask.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  girls  were  having 
fun  in  the  theaters  and  the  restaurants  and  the 
streets.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  fellows  were  tak- 
ing their  best  girls  places. 

If  only  Webster  Edie  would  come  and  take  her  out 
for  a  walk!  She  had  been  his  best  girl,  and  he  had 

269 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

been  her  fellow.  Why  must  he  send  her  here,  alone? 
It  was  his  duty  to  be  with  her,  now  of  all  times.  A 
woman  had  a  right  to  a  little  petting,  now  of  all 
times.  She  had  written  him  so  yesterday,  begging 
him  to  come  to  her  at  any  cost.  But  her  letter  must 
have  crossed  his  letter,  and  in  that  he  said  that  he 
could  not  get  away  and  could  not  send  her  any  money 
for  at  least  another  week,  and  then  not  much. 

She  was  doomed  to  loneliness — indefinitely.  If 
only  some  one  would  come  in  and  talk  to  her!  The 
landlady  never  came  except  about  the  bill.  The 
little  slattern  who  brought  her  meals  had  gone  to  bed. 
She  knew  nobody — only  voices,  the  voices  of  other 
boarders  who  went  up  and  down  the  stairs  and  some- 
times paused  outside  her  door  to  talk  and  laugh  or 
exchange  gossip.  She  had  caught  a  few  names  from 
occasional  greeting  or  exclamation:  "Good  morning, 
Miss  Marland!"  "Why,  Mrs.  Elsbree!"  "How 
was  the  show  last  night,  Miss  Bessett?"  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Teed,  would  you  mind  mailing  these  letters  as  you  go 
out?"  "Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Braywood." 

They  were  as  formless  to  her  as  ghosts,  but  she 
could  not  help  imagining  bodies  and  faces  and  clothes 
to  fit  the  voices.  She  could  not  help  forming  likes 
and  dislikes.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  have  any 
of  them  come  to  see  her,  to  ask  how  she  was  or  ad- 
mire the  baby,  or  to  borrow  a  pin  or  lend  a  book. 

If  somebody  did  not  come  to  see  her  she  would 
go  mad.  If  only  she  dared,  she  would  leave  the  baby 
and  steal  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  front  door 

270 


THE    GHOSTLY   COUNSELORS 

and  slip  along  the  streets.  They  called  her;  they 
beckoned  to  her  and  promised  her  happiness.  She 
was  like  a  little  yacht  held  fast  in  a  cove  by  a  little 
anchor.  The  breeze  was  full  of  summons  and  nudg- 
ings;  the  water  in  the  bay  was  dancing,  every  ripple 
a  giggle.  Only  her  anchor  held  her,  such  a  little 
anchor,  such  a  gripping  anchor! 

If  only  some  one  would  come  in!  If  only  the  baby 
could  talk,  or  even  listen  with  understanding!  She 
was  afraid  to  be  alone  any  longer,  lest  she  do  some- 
thing insane  and  fearful.  She  sat  at  the  window, 
with  one  arm  stretched  out  across  the  sill  and  her 
chin  across  it,  and  stared  off  into  the  city's  well  of 
white  lights.  Then  she  bent  her  head,  hid  her  hot 
face  in  the  hollow  of  her  elbow,  and  clenched  her  eye- 
lids to  shut  away  the  torment.  She  was  loneliest 
staring  at  the  city,  but  she  was  unendurably  lonely 
with  her  eyes  shut.  She  would  go  crazy  if  somebody 
did  not  come. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.     It  startled  her. 

She  sat  up  and  listened.  The  knock  was  re- 
peated softly.  She  turned  her  head  and  stared  at 
the  door.  Then  she  murmured,  "Come  in." 

The  door  whispered  open,  and  a  woman  in  soft 
black  skirts  whispered  in.  The  room  was  lighted 
only  by  the  radiance  from  the  sky,  and  the  mys- 
terious woman  was  mysteriously  vague  against  the 
dimly  illuminated  hall. 

She  closed  the  door  after  her  and  stood,  a  shadow 
in  a  shadow.  Even  her  face  was  a  mere  glimmer, 

271 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

like  a  patch  of  moonlight  on  the  door,  and  her  voice 
was  stealthy  as  a  breeze.  It  was  something  like  the 
voice  she  heard  called  "Mrs.  Elsbree." 

Hilda  started  to  rise,  but  a  faint,  white  hand 
pressed  her  back  and  the  voice  said: 

"Don't  rise,  my  dear.  I  know  how  weak  you  are, 
what  you  have  gone  through,  alone,  here  in  this 
dreary  place.  I  know  what  pain  you  have  endured, 
and  the  shame  you  have  felt,  the  shame  that  faces 
you  outside  in  the  world.  It  is  a  cruel  world.  To 
women — oh,  but  it  is  cruel!  It  has  no  mercy  for  a 
woman  who  loves  too  well. 

"If  you  had  a  lot  of  money  you  might  fight  it 
with  its  own  weapon.  Money  is  the  one  weapon  it 
respects.  But  you  haven't  any  money,  have  you, 
my  dear?  If  you  had,  you  wouldn't  be  here  in  the 
dark  alone,  would  you? 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  nothing  ahead  of  you,  either, 
but  darkness,  my  dear.  The  man  you  loved  has 
deserted  you,  hasn't  he?  He  is  a  poor,  weak  thing, 
anyway.  Even  if  he  married  you,  you  would  prob- 
ably part.  He'd  always  hate  you.  Nobody  else 
will  want  you  for  a  wife,  you  poor  child;  you  know 
that,  don't  you?  And  nobody  will  help  you,  be- 
cause of  the  baby.  You  couldn't  find  work  and  keep 
the  baby  with  you,  could  you?  And  you  couldn't 
leave  it.  It  is  a  weight  about  your  neck;  it  will 
drown  you  in  deep  waters. 

"Even  if  it  lived,  it  would  have  only  misery 
ahead  of  it,  for  your  story  would  follow  it  through 

272 


THE   GHOSTLY   COUNSELORS 

life.  The  older  it  grew,  the  more  it  would  suffer. 
It  would  despise  you  and  itself.  How  much  happier 
you  would  be  not  to  be  alive  at  all,  both  of  you,  you 
poor,  unwelcome  things! 

" There  are  many  problems  ahead  of  you,  my 
dear;  and  you'll  never  solve  them,  except  in  one  way. 
If  you  were  dead  and  asleep  in  your  grave  with  your 
poor  little  one  at  your  breast,  all  your  troubles 
would  be  over  then,  wouldn't  they?  People  would 
feel  sorry  for  you;  they  wouldn't  sneer  at  you  then. 
And  you  wouldn't  mind  loneliness  or  hunger  or 
pointing  fingers  or  anything. 

"Take  my  advice,  dearie,  and  end  it  now.  There 
are  so  many  ways;  so  many  things  to  buy  at  drug- 
stores. And  that's  the  river  you  can  just  see  over 
there.  It  is  very  peaceful  in  its  depths.  Its  cool, 
dark  waters  will  wash  away  your  sorrows.  Or  if 
that  is  too  far  for  you  to  go,  there's  the  window. 
You  could  climb  out  on  the  ledge  with  your  baby  in 
your  arms  and  just  step  off  into — peace.  Take  my 
advice,  poor,  lonely,  little  thing.  It's  the  one  way; 
I  know.  The  world  will  forgive  you,  and  Heaven 
will  be  merciful.  Didn't  Christ  take  the  Magdalen 
into  His  own  company  and  His  mother's  ?  He  will 
take  you  up  into  heaven,  if  you  go  now.  Good-by. 
Don't  be  afraid.  Good-by.  Don't  be  afraid." 

She  was  gone  so  softly  that  Hilda  did  not  see  her 
go.  She  had  been  staring  off  into  that  ocean  of 
space,  and  when  she  turned  her  head  the  woman  was 
gone.  But  her  influence  was  left  in  the  very  air. 

273 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Her  words  went  on  whispering  about  the  room. 
Under  their  influence  the  girl  rose,  tottered  to  the 
bed,  gathered  the  sleeping  baby  to  her  young  bosom, 
kissed  his  brow  without  waking  him,  and  stumbled 
to  the  window. 

She  pushed  it  as  high  as  it  would  go  and  knelt 
on  the  ledge,  peering  down  into  the  street.  It  was  a 
fearful  distance  to  the  walk. 

She  hoped  she  would  not  strike  the  stone  steps  or 
the  area  rail.  And  yet  what  difference  would  it 
make?  It  would  only  assure  her  peace  the  quicker. 
She  must  wait  for  those  people  below  to  walk  past. 
But  they  were  not  gone  before  others  were  there. 
She  could  not  hurl  herself  upon  them. 

As  she  waited,  it  grew  terrible  to  take  the  plunge. 
She  had  always  been  afraid  of  high  places.  She  grew 
dizzy  now,  and  must  cling  hard  to  keep  from  falling 
before  she  said  her  prayers  and  was  ready.  And, 
now  the  pavement  was  clear.  She  kissed  her  baby 
again.  She  drew  in  a  deep  breath,  her  last  sip  of 
the  breath  of  life.  How  good  it  was,  this  clear,  cool 
air  flowing  across  this  great,  beautiful,  heartless  city 
that  she  should  never  see  again!  And  now — 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  checked  her. 
She  lost  impulse  and  impetus  and  crept  back  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  She  was  pretending  to  be  rocking 
the  baby  to  sleep  when  she  murmured,  "Come  in." 

Perhaps  it  would  be  Mrs.  Elsbree,  returned  to 
reproach  her  for  her  cowardice  and  her  delay.  But 
when  she  dared  to  look  up  it  was  another  woman. 

274 


THE    GHOSTLY   COUNSELORS 

At  least  it  was  another  voice — perhaps  Miss  Mar- 
land's. 

"I've  been  meaning  to  call  on  you,  Mrs.  Emerton, 
but  I  haven't  had  a  free  moment.  Of  course  I've 
known  all  along  why  you  were  here.  We  all  have. 
There's  been  a  good  deal  of  backbiting.  But  that's 
the  boarding-house  of  it.  This  evening,  at  dinner, 
there  was  some  mention  of  you  at  the  table,  and  some 
of  the  women  were  ridiculing  you  and  some  were 
condemning  you.  Oh,  don't  wince,  my  dear;  every- 
body is  always  being  ridiculed  or  condemned  or 
both  for  something.  If  you  were  one  of  the  saints 
they  would  burn  you  at  the  stake  or  put  you  to  the 
torture. 

"Anyway,  I  spoke  up  and  told  them  that  the  only 
one  who  had  a  right  to  cast  a  stone  at  you  was  one 
without  sin,  and  I  despaired  of  rinding  such  a  person 
in  this  boarding-house — or  outside,  either,  for  that 
matter.  I  spoke  up  and  told  them  that  you  were  no 
worse  than  the  others.  They  all  had  their  scandals, 
and  I  know  most  of  them.  There's  some  scandal 
about  everybody.  We're  all  sinners — if  you  want  to 
call  it  sin  to  follow  your  most  sacred  instincts. 

"Why  should  you  be  afraid  of  a  little  gossip  or  a 
few  jokes  or  a  little  abuse  from  a  few  hypocrites? 
They're  all  sinners — worse  than  you,  too,  most  of 
them,  if  the  truth  were  known. 

"Why  blame  yourself  and  call  yourself  a  criminal? 
You  loved  the  boy — loved  him  too  much,  that's  all. 
If  you  had  been  really  wicked  you  would  have  re- 

19  275 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

fused  to  love  him  or  to  give  yourself  up  to  his  plea. 
If  you  had  been  really  bad  you'd  have  known  too 
much  to  have  this  child.  You'd  have  got  rid  of  it 
at  all  costs. 

"You  are  really  a  very  good  little  woman  with  a 
passion  for  being  a  mother.  It's  the  world  outside 
that's  bad.  Don't  be  ashamed  before  it.  Hold  your 
head  up.  The  world  owes  you  a  living,  and  it  will 
pay  it  if  you  demand  it.  It  will  pay  for  you  and 
your  child,  too.  Just  demand  your  rights.  You'll 
soon  find  a  place.  You're  too  young  and  beautiful 
to  be  neglected.  You're  young  and  beautiful  and 
passionate.  You  can  make  some  man  awfully  happy. 
He'll  be  glad  to  have  your  baby  and  you — disgrace 
and  all.  He  may  be  very  rich,  too.  Go  find  him. 
The  baby  may  grow  up  to  be  a  wonderful  man. 
You  could  make  enough  to  give  the  boy  every  ad- 
vantage and  a  fine  start  in  the  world. 

"The  world  is  yours,  if  you'll  only  take  it.  Re- 
member the  Bible,  'Ask  and  it  shall  be  given  unto 
you/  Think  it  over,  my  dear.  Don't  do  anything 
foolish  or  rash.  You're  too  young  and  too  beautiful. 
And  now  I  must  run  along.  Good-by  and  good 
luck." 

While  Hilda  was  breathing  deep  of  this  wine  of 
hope  and  courage  the  woman  was  gone. 

Hilda  glanced  out  of  the  window  again.  She 
shuddered.  A  moment  more  and  she  would  have 
been  lying  below  there,  broken,  mangled,  unsightly 
— perhaps  not  dead,  only  crippled  for  life  and  ar- 

276 


THE    GHOSTLY    COUNSELORS 

rested  as  a  suicide  that  failed;  perhaps  as  a  mur- 
deress, since  the  fall  would  surely  have  killed  her 
child — her  precious  child.  She  held  him  close,  her 
great  man-baby,  her  son;  he  laughed,  beat  the  air 
with  his  hands,  chuckled,  and  smote  her  cheek  with 
palms  like  white  roses.  She  would  take  him  from 
this  gloomy  place.  She  would  go  out  and  demand 
money,  fine  clothes,  attention. 

She  put  on  her  hat,  a  very  shabby  little  hat.  She 
began  to  wrap  the  baby  in  a  heavy  shawl.  They 
would  have  finer  things  soon. 

She  grew  dizzy  with  excitement  and  the  exertion, 
and  sank  back  in  the  chair  a  moment,  to  regain  her 
strength.  The  chair  creaked.  No,  it  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  It  proved  what  the  last  woman  had 
said.  "Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you." 

She  had  wished  for  some  one  to  call  on  her.  The 
whole  boarding-house  was  coming.  She  was  giving 
a  party. 

This  time  it  was  another  voice  out  of  the  darkness. 
It  must  have  been  Miss  Bessett's.  She  spoke  in  a 
cold,  hard,  hasty  tone.  "Going  out,  my  dear? 
Alone,  I  hope?  No,  the  baby's  wrapped  up!  You're 
not  going  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  lug  that  baby  along? 
He  brands  you  at  once.  Nobody  will  want  you 
round  with  a  squalling  baby.  Oh,  of  course  he's  a 
pretty  child;  but  he's  too  noisy.  He'll  ruin  every 
chance  you  have. 

"You're  really  very  pretty,  my  dear.  The  land- 
lady said  so.  If  she  noticed  it,  you  must  be  a  beauty, 

277 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

indeed.  This  is  a  great  town  for  pretty  girls. 
There's  a  steady  market  for  them. 

"The  light  is  poor  here,  but  beauty  like  yours 
glows  even  in  darkness,  and  that's  what  they  want, 
the  men.  The  world  will  pay  anything  for  beauty, 
if  beauty  has  the  brains  to  ask  a  high  price  and  not 
give  too  much  for  it. 

"Think  of  the  slaves  who  have  become  queens, 
the  mistresses  who  have  become  empresses.  There 
are  rich  women  all  over  town  who  came  by  their 
money  dishonestly.  You  should  see  some  of  them 
in  the  Park  with  their  automobiles.  You'd  be 
ashamed  even  to  let  them  run  over  you.  Yet,  if 
you  were  dressed  up,  you'd  look  better  than  any  of 
the  automobile  brigade. 

"You  might  be  a  great  singer.  I've  heard  you 
crooning  to  the  baby.  You  find  a  rich  man  and  make 
him  pay  for  your  lessons,  and  then  you  make  eyes  at 
the  manager  and,  before  you  know  it,  you'll  be  en- 
gaged for  the  opera  and  earning  a  thousand  dollars 
a  night — more  than  that,  maybe. 

"Think  how  much  that  means.  It  would  make 
you  mighty  glad  you  didn't  marry  that  young 
gawp  at  home.  He's  a  cheap  skate  to  get  you  into 
this  trouble  and  not  help  you  out. 

"But  I'll  set  you  in  the  way  of  making  a  mint  of 
money.  There's  only  one  thing:  you  must  give  up 
the  baby  and  never  let  anybody  know  you  ever  had 
it.  Don't  freeze  up  and  turn  away.  There  are  so 
many  ways  of  disposing  of  a  baby.  Send  it  to  a 

278 


THE    GHOSTLY    COUNSELORS 

foundling  asylum.  No  questions  will  be  asked. 
The  baby  will  have  the  best  of  care  and  grow  so 
strong  that  some  rich  couple  will  insist  on  adopting 
it,  or  you  could  come  back  when  you  are  married  to  a 
rich  man  and  pretend  you  took  a  fancy  to  it  and 
adopt  it  yourself. 

"And  there's  a  lot  of  other  ways  to  get  rid  of  a 
baby.  You  could  give  it  the  wrong  medicine  by 
mistake,  or  just  walk  out  and  forget  it.  And 
there's  the  river;  you  could  drop  it  into  those  black 
waters.  And  then  you're  free — baby  would  never 
know.  He  would  be  ever  so  much  better  off.  And 
you  would  be  free. 

"You  must  be  free.  You  must  get  a  little  taste 
of  life.  You've  a  right  to  it.  You  lived  in  a  little 
stupid  village  all  your  years — and  now  you're  in  the 
city.  Listen  to  it!  It  would  be  yours  for  the  asking. 
And  it  gives  riches  and  glory  to  the  pretty  girls  it 
likes.  But  you  must  go  to  it  as  a  girl,  not  as  a  poor, 
broken,  ragged  thing,  lugging  a  sickly  baby  with  no 
name.  Get  rid  of  the  baby,  my  dear.  It  will  die, 
anyway.  It  will  starve  and  sicken.  Put  it  out  of 
its  misery.  That  medicine  on  your  wash-stand — an 
overdose  of  that  and  you  can  say  it  was  a  mistake. 
Who  can  prove  it  wasn't?  Then  you  are  free. 
You'll  have  hundreds  of  friends,  and  a  career,  and  a 
motor  of  your  own,  and  servants,  and  a  beautiful 
home.  Don't  waste  your  youth,  my  dear.  Invest 
your  beauty  where  it  will  bring  big  proceeds. 

"See  those  lights  off  there — the  big  lights  with 
279 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

the  name  of  that  woman  in  electric  letters?  She 
came  to  town  poorer  than  you  and  with  a  worse 
name.  Now  she  is  rich  and  famous.  And  the 
Countess  of — What's-her-name?  She  was  poor  and 
bad,  but  she  didn't  let  any  old-fashioned  ideas  of  re- 
morse hold  her  back.  Go  on;  get  rid  of  the  brat. 
Go  on!" 

Hilda  clutched  the  baby  closer  and  moved  away 
to  shield  her  from  this  grim  counselor.  When  she 
turned  again  she  was  alone.  The  woman  had  gone, 
but  the  air  trembled  with  her  fierce  wisdom.  She 
was  ruthless,  but  how  wise! 

The  lights  flaring  up  into  the  sky  carried  that 
other  woman's  name.  Her  picture  was  everywhere. 
She  had  been  poor  and  wicked.  Now  she  was  a 
household  word,  respected  because  she  was  rich. 
She  had  succeeded. 

There  came  a  lilting  of  music  on  a  breeze.  They 
were  dancing,  somewhere.  The  tango  "  coaxed  her 
feet."  Her  body  swayed  with  it. 

If  she  were  there,  men  would  quarrel  over  her, 
rush  to  claim  her — as  they  had  done  even  in  the 
village  before  she  threw  herself  away  on  the  most 
worthless,  shiftless  of  the  lot,  who  got  her  into 
trouble  and  deserted  her.  It  was  not  her  business  to 
starve  for  his  baby. 

The  baby  began  to  fret  again,  to  squawk  with 
vicious  explosions  of  ugly  rage;  it  puled  and  yowled. 
It  was  a  nuisance.  It  caught  a  fistful  of  her  hair 
and  wrenched  till  the  tears  of  pain  rushed  to  her 

280 


THE   GHOSTLY    COUNSELORS 

eyes.  She  unclasped  the  little  talons,  ran  to  the 
wash-stand,  took  up  an  ugly  bottle  and  poured  out 
enough  to  put  an  end  to  that  nauseating  wail. 

She  bent  over  to  lift  the  baby  to  the  glass.  Its 
lips  touched  her  bosom.  Its  crying  turned  to  a 
little  chortle  like  a  brook's  music.  It  pommeled 
her  with  hands  like  white  roses.  The  moon  rested 
on  its  little  head  and  made  its  fuzz  of  hair  a  halo. 
She  paused,  adoring  it  sacredly  like  another  Ma- 
donna. 

A  soft  tap  at  the  door.  She  put  the  fatal  glass 
away  and  turned  guiltily.  A  dark  little  woman  was 
there,  and  a  soft,  motherly  voice  spoke.  It  must 
be  Mrs.  Braywood's.  rShe  could  not  have  sus- 
pected, for  her  tone  was  all  of  affection. 

"I  heard  your  child  laughing,  my  dear — and  cry- 
ing. I  don't  know  which  went  to  my  heart  deeper. 
I  just  had  to  come  to  see  it.  It  is  so  marvelous  to  be 
a  mother.  I've  been  married  for  ten  years,  and  my 
husband  and  I  have  prayed  and  waited.  But  God 
would  not  send  us  a  baby.  He  saved  that  honor 
for  you.  And  such  an  honor  and  glory  and  power! 
To  be  a  mother!  To  be  a  rose-bush  and  have  a  white 
bud  grow  upon  your  stem,  and  bloom!  Oh,  you 
lucky  child,  to  be  selected  for  such  a  privilege !  You 
must  have  suffered;  you  must  be  suffering  now; 
but  there's  nothing  worth  while  that  doesn't  cost 
pain. 

"It  occurred  to  me  that — don't  misunderstand 
me,  my  child,  but — well,  the  landlady  said  you  were 

281 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

poor;  she  was  in  doubt  of  the  room  rent;  so  I 
thought — perhaps  you  might  not  want  the  baby  as 
much  as  I  do. 

"I  hoped  you  might  let  me  take  him.  I'd  be  such 
a  good  mother  to  him.  I'd  love  him  as  if  he  were 
my  own,  and  my  husband  would  pay  you  well  for 
him.  We'd  give  him  our  own  name,  and  people 
should  never  know  that  he — that  you — that  we 
weren't  really  his  parents.  Give  him  to  me,  won't 
you?  Please!  I  beg  you!" 

Hilda  whirled  away  from  her  pleading  hands  and 
clenched  the  baby  so  hard  that  it  cried  a  little.  The 
sound  was  like  that  first  wail  of  his  she  had  ever 
heard.  Again  it  went  into  her  heart  like  a  little 
hand  seizing  and  wringing  it. 

Mrs.  Braywood — if  it  were  Mrs.  Braywood — was 
not  angry  at  the  rebuff,  though  she  was  plainly  dis- 
heartened. She  tried  to  be  brave,  and  sighed. 

"Oh,  I  don't  wonder  you  turn  away.  I  under- 
stand. I  wouldn't  give  him  up  if  I  were  in  your 
place.  The  father  must  come  soon.  He  won't  stay 
away  long.  Just  let  him  see  the  baby  and  hear  its 
voice  and  know  it  is  his  baby,  and  he  will  stand  by 
you. 

"He  will  come  to  you.  He  will  hear  the  voice 
wherever  he  is,  and  he  will  make  you  his  wife.  And 
the  baby  will  make  a  man  of  him  and  give  him 
ambition  and  inspiration.  Babies  always  provide 
for  themselves,  they  say.  You  will  have  trouble, 
and  you  will  suffer  from  the  gibes  of  self-righteous 

282 


THE    GHOSTLY    COUNSELORS 

people,  and  you  will  be  cruelly  blamed;  but  there  is 
only  one  way  to  expiate  sin,  my  child,  and  that  is  to 
face  its  consequences  and  pay  its  penalties  in  full. 
The  only  way  to  atone  for  a  wrong  deed  is  to  do  the 
next  right  thing.  Take  good  care  of  your  precious 
treasure.  Good-by.  His  father  will  come  soon.  He 
will  come.  Good-by.  Oh,  you  enviable  thing,  you 
mother!" 

And  now  she  was  gone.  But  she  had  left  the 
baby's  value  enhanced,  and  the  mother's,  too. 

She  had  offered  a  price  for  the  baby,  and  glorified 
the  mother.  The  lonely  young  country  girl  felt  no 
longer  utterly  disgraced.  -  She  did  not  feel  that  the 
baby  was  a  mark  of  Heaven's  disfavor,  but  rather 
of  its  favor.  She  felt  lonely  no  longer.  The  streets 
interested  her  no  more.  Let  those  idle  revelers  go 
their  way;  let  them  dance  and  laugh.  They  had 
no  child  of  their  own  to  adore  and  to  enjoy. 

If  the  baby's  father  came  they  would  be  married. 
If  he  delayed — well,  she  would  stumble  on  alone. 
The  baby  was  her  cross.  She  must  carry  it  up  the 
hill. 

Hilda  felt  entirely  content,  but  very  tired,  full  of 
hope  that  Webster  Edie  would  come  to  her,  but  full 
of  contentment,  too.  She  talked  to  the  baby,  and 
he  seemed  to  understand  her  now.  She  could  not 
translate  his  language,  but  he  translated  hers. 

She  slipped  out  of  her  day  clothes  and  into  her 
nightgown — and  so  to  bed.  She  fell  asleep  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms.  Her  head  drooped  back  and  her 

283 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

parted  lips  seemed  to  pant  and  glow.  The  moon 
reached  her  window  and  sent  in  a  long  shaft  of  light. 
It  found  a  great  tear  on  her  cheek.  It  gleamed  on 
her  throat  bent  back;  it  gleamed  on  one  bare  shoulder 
where  the  gown  was  torn;  it  gleamed  on  her  breast 
where  the  baby  drowsily  clung. 

There  was  a  benediction  in  the  moonlight. 


DAUGHTERS  OF  SHILOH 


MRS.  SERINA  PEPPERALL  had  called  her 
husband  twice  without  success.  It  was  at 
that  hatefulest  hour  of  the  whole  week  when  every- 
body that  has  to  get  up  is  getting  up  and  realizing 
that  it  is  Monday  morning,  and  raining  besides. 

It  is  bad  enough  for  it  to  be  Monday,  but  for  it 
to  be  raining  is  inexcusable. 

Young  Horace  Pepperall  used  to  say  that  that  was 
the  reason  the  world  didn't  improve  much.  People 
got  good  on  Sunday,  and  then  it  had  to  go  and  be 
Monday.  He  had  an  idea  that  if  Sunday  could  be 
followed  by  some  other  day,  preferably  Saturday, 
there  would  be  more  happiness  and  virtue  in  the 
world.  Mrs.  Pepperall  used  to  say  that  her  boy  was 
quite  a  ph'losopher  in  his  way.  Mr.  Pepperall  said 
he  was  a  hopeless  loafer  and  spent  more  time  de- 
ciding whether  he'd  ought  to  do  this  or  that  than  it 
would  have  taken  to  do  'em  both  twice.  Whereupon 
Mrs.  Pepperall,  whose  maiden  name  was  Boody — 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Ex-County-Clerk  Boody — would 
remind  her  husband  that  he  was  only  a  Pepperall, 
after  all,  while  her  son  was  at  least  half  Boody. 

285 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

Whereupon  her  husband  would  remind  her  of  certain 
things  about  the  Boodys.  And  so  it  would  go.  But 
that  was  other  mornings.  This  was  this  morning. 

Among  all  the  homes  that  the  sun  looked  upon — 
or  would  have  looked  upon  if  it  could  have  looked 
upon  anything  and  if  it  hadn't  been  raining  and  the 
Pepperall  roof  had  not  been  impervious  to  light, 
though  not  to  moisture — among  them  all,  surely  the 
Pepperall  reveille  would  have  been  the  least  attrac- 
tive. Homer  never  got  his  picture  of  rosy-fingered 
Aurora  smilingly  leaping  out  of  the  couch  of  night 
from  any  such  home  as  the  Pepperalls'  in  Carthage. 

Serina  was  as  unlike  Aurora  as  possible.  Aurora 
is  usually  poised  on  tiptoe,  with  her  well-manicured 
nails  gracefully  extended,  and  nothing  much  about  her 
except  a  chariot  and  more  or  less  chiffon,  according 
to  whether  the  picture  is  for  families  or  bachelors. 

Serina  was  entirely  surrounded  by  flannelette,  of 
simple  and  pitilessly  chaste  design — a  hole  at  the 
top  for  her  head  to  go  through  and  a  larger  one  at 
the  other  extreme  for  her  feet  to  stick  out  at.  But 
it  was  so  long  that  you  couldn't  have  seen  her  feet 
if  you  had  been  there.  And  Papa  Pepperall,  who 
was  there,  was  no  longer  interested  in  those  once 
exciting  ankles.  They  had  been  more  interesting 
when  there  had  been  less  of  them.  But  we'd  better 
talk  about  the  sleeves. 

The  sleeves  were  so  long  that  they  kept  falling 
into  the  water  where  Serina  was  making  a  hasty 
toilet  at  the  little  marble-topped  altar  to  cleanliness 

286 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

which  the  Pepperalls  called  the  "worsh-stand" — that 
is,  the  "hand-wash-basin,"  as  Mrs.  Hippisley  called 
it  after  she  came  back  from  her  never-to-be-forgotten 
trip  to  England. 

But  then  Serina's  sleeves  had  always  been  falling 
into  the  suds,  and  ever  since  she  could  remember 
she  had  rolled  them  up  again  with  that  peculiar 
motion  with  which  people  roll  up  sleeves.  This 
morning,  having  failed  to  elicit  papa  from  the  bed 
by  persuasion,  she  made  such  a  racket  about  her 
ablutions  that  he  lifted  his  dreary  lids  at  last.  He 
realized  that  it  was  morning,  Monday,  and  raining. 
It  irritated  him  so  that  he  glared  at  his  faithful 
wife  with  no  fervor  for  her  unsullied  and  unwearied 
—if  not  altogether  unwearisome — devotion.  He 
watched  her  roll  up  those  sleeves  thrice  more. 
Somehow  he  wanted  to  scream  at  the  futility  of  it. 
But  he  checked  the  impulse  partly,  and  it  was  with 
softness  that  he  made  a  comment  he  had  choked 
back  for  years.  "Serina — "  he  began. 

"Well,"  she  returned,  pausing  with  the  soap 
clenched  in  one  hand. 

He  spoke  with  the  luxurious  leisureliness  and  the 
pauses  for  commas  of  a  nearly  educated  man  lolling 
too  long  abed: 

"Serina,  it  has  just  occurred  to  me  that,  since  we 
have  been  married,  you  have  expended,  on  rolling 
back  those  everlastingly  relapsing  sleeves  of  yours, 
enough  energy  to  have  rolled  the  Sphinx  of  Egypt 
up  on  top  of  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops." 

287 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Serina  was  so  surprised  that  she  shot  the  slippery 
soap  under  the  wash-stand.  She  went  right  after 
it.  There  may  be  nymphs  who  can  stalk  a  cake  of 
soap  under  a  wash-stand  with  grace,  but  Serina  was 
not  one  of  them.  Her  indolent  spouse  made  another 
cynical  comment: 

"Don't  do  that!  You  look  like  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty  trying  to  peek  into  the  Subway." 

But  she  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  rummaging 
for  the  soap  and  for  an  answer  to  his  first  remark. 
At  length  she  emerged  with  both.  She  stood  up  and 
panted. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  as  it  would  'a'  done  me  any 
good  if  I  had  have!" 

"Had  have  what?"  her  husband  yawned,  having 
forgotten  his  original  remark. 

"Got  the  Sphinnix  on  top  of  the  Cheops.  And 
besides,  I've  been  meaning  to  hem  them  up;  but 
now  that  you've  gone  bankrupt  again,  and  I  have 
to  do  my  own  cooking  and  all — 

"But,  my  dear  Serina,  you've  said  the  same  thing 
ever  since  we  were  married.  What  frets  me  is  to 
think  of  the  terrible  waste  of  labor  with  nothing  to 
show  for  it." 

She  sniffed,  and  retorted  with  all  the  superiority  of 
the  unsuccessful  wife  of  an  unsuccessful  husband: 

"Well,  I  can't  see  as  you're  so  smart.  Ever  since 
we  been  married  you  been  goin'  to  that  stationery- 
store  of  yours,  and  you  never  learned  enough  to  keep 
from  going  bankrupt  three  times.  And  now  they've 

288 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

shut  the  shop,  and  you've  nothing  better  to  do  than 
lay  in  bed  and  make  fun  of  me  that  have  slaved  for 
you  and  your  children.'* 

They  were  always  his  children  when  she  talked  of 
the  trouble  they  were.  Her  all  too  familiar  oration 
was  interrupted  by  the  eel-like  leap  of  the  soap. 
This  time  it  described  a  graceful  arc  that  landed  it 
under  the  middle  of  the  bed — a  double  bed  at  that. 

Pepperall  had  the  gallantry  to  pursue  it.  He 
went  head  first  over  the  starboard  quarter  of  the 
deck,  leaving  his  feet  aboard.  Just  as  he  tagged  the 
soap  with  his  fingers  his  feet  came  on  over  after  him, 
and  he  found  himself  flat  on  his  back,  with  his  head 
under  the  bed  and  his  feet  under  the  bureau. 

When  the  thunder  of  his  downfall  had  subsided 
he  heard  Serina  say,  "Now  that  you're  up  you  better 
stay  up." 

So  he  wriggled  out  from  under  and  got  himself 
aloft,  rubbing  his  indignant  back.  If  Serina  was  no 
Aurora  rising  from  the  sea,  her  husband  was  no 
Phoebus  Apollo.  His  gown  looked  like  hers,  only 
younger.  It  had  a  frivolous  little  pocket,  and  the 
slit-skirt  effect  on  both  sides;  and  it  was  cut  what  is 
called  "misses'  length,"  disclosing  two  of  the  least 
attractive  shins  in  Carthage. 

He  was  aching  all  over  and  he  was  angry,  and  he 
snarled  as  he  stood  at  the  wash-stand: 

"Have  you  finished  with  this  water?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  mufHedly,  from  the  depths  of  a 
face-towel. 

289 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Why  don't  you  ever  empty  the  bowl  then?"  he 
growled,  and  viciously  tilted  the  contents  into  the 
—must  I  say  the  awful  word? — the  slop-jar — what 
other  word  is  there? 

The  water  splashed  over  and  struck  the  bare  feet 
of  both  icily.  They  yowled  and  danced  like  Piute 
Indians,  and  glared  at  each  other  as  they  danced. 
They  glared  in  a  nagged  rage  that  would  have 
turned  into  an  ugly  quarrel  if  a  great  sorrow  had  not 
suddenly  overswept  them.  They  saw  themselves 
as  they  were  and  by  a  whim  of  memory  they  re- 
membered what  they  had  been.  He  laughed  bit- 
terly: 

"It's  the  first  time  we've  danced  together  in  a 
long  time,  eh  ?" 

Her  lower  lip  began  to  quiver  and  swell  quite  in- 
dependently and  she  sighed: 

"Not  much  like  the  dances  we  used  to  dance. 
Oh  dear!" 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  and  stared,  not  at  her 
husband,  but  at  the  bridegroom  of  long  ago  he  had 
shriveled  from.  She  remembered  those  honeymoon 
mornings  when  they  had  awakened  like  eager  chil- 
dren and  laughed  and  romped  and  been  glad  of  the 
new  day.  The  mornings  had  been  precious  then, 
for  it  was  a  tragedy  to  let  him  go  to  his  shop,  as  it 
was  a  festival  to  watch  from  the  porch  in  the  evening 
till  he  came  round  the  corner  and  waved  to  her. 

She  looked  from  him  to  herself,  to  what  she  could 
see  of  herself — it  was  not  all,  but  more  than  enough. 

290 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

She  saw  her  heavy  red  hands  and  the  coarse  gown 
over  her  awkward  knees,  and  the  dismal  slovenliness 
of  her  attitude.  She  felt  that  he  was  remembering 
the  slim,  wild,  sweet  girl  he  had  married.  And  she 
was  ashamed  before  his  eyes,  because  she  had  let 
the  years  prey  upon  her  and  had  lazily  permitted 
beauty  to  escape  from  her — from  her  body,  her  face, 
her  motions,  her  thoughts. 

She  felt  that  for  all  her  prating  of  duty  she  had 
committed  a  great  wickedness  lifelong.  She  won- 
dered if  this  were  not  "the  unpardonable  sin,"  whose 
exact  identity  nobody  fhad  seemed  to  decide — to 
grow  strangers  with  beauty  and  to  forget  grace. 


II 

Whatever  her  husband  may  nave  been  thinking, 
he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  hide  his  eyes  in  the 
water  he  had  poured  from  the  pitcher.  He  scooped 
it  up  now  in  double  handfuls.  He  made  a  great 
splutter  and  soused  his  face  in  the  bowl,  and  scrubbed 
the  back  of  his  neck  and  behind  his  ears  and  his  bald 
spot,  and  slapped  his  eminent  collar-bones  with  his 
wet  hand.  And  then  he  was  bathed. 

Serina  pulled  on  her  stockings,  and  hated  them 
and  the  coarser  feet  they  covered.  She  opened  the 
wardrobe  door  as  a  screen,  less  from  modesty  for 
herself  than  from  sudden  disgust  of  her  old  corset 
and  her  all  too  sober  lingerie.  She  resolved  that  she 
would  hereafter  deck  herself  with  more  of  that 

20  291 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

coquetry  which  had  abruptly  returned  to  her  mind 
as  a  wife's  most  solemn  duty. 

Then  she  remembered  that  they  were  poorer  than 
they  ever  had  been.  Now  they  could  not  even  run 
into  debt  again;  for  who  would  give  them  further 
credit,  since  their  previous  bills  had  been  canceled 
by  nothing  more  satisfactory  than  the  grim  "Re- 
ceived payment"  of  the  bankruptcy  court? 

It  was  too  late  for  her  to  reform.  Her  song  was 
sung.  And  as  for  buying  frills  and  fallals,  there  were 
two  daughters  to  provide  for  and  a  son  who  was 
growing  into  the  stratum  of  foppery.  With  a  sigh 
of  dismissal  she  flung  on  her  old  wrapper,  whose 
comfortableness  she  suddenly  despised,  and  made 
her  escape,  murmuring,  "I'll  call  the  childern." 

She  pounded  on  the  boy's  door,  and  Horace 
eventually  answered  with  his  regular  program  of 
uncouth  noises,  like  some  one  protesting  against 
being  strangled  to  death.  These  were  followed  by 
moans  of  woe,  and  then  by  far-off-sounding  promises 
of  "Oh,  aw  ri',  I'm  git'nup." 

Serina  moved  on  to  her  youngest  daughter's  door. 
She  had  tapped  but  once  when  it  was  opened  by 
"the  best  girl  that  ever  lived,"  according  to  her 
father;  and  according  to  her  mother,  "a  treasure; 
never  gave  me  a  bit  of  trouble — plain,  of  course,  but 
so  willing!" 

Ollie  was  fully  dressed  and  so  was  her  room,  except 
for  the  bed,  the  covers  of  which  were  thrown  back 
like  a  wave  breaking  over  the  footboard.  In  fact, 

292 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

after  Ollie  had  kissed  her  mother  she  informed  her 
that  the  kitchen  fire  was  made,  the  wash-boiler  on, 
and  the  breakfast  going. 

"You  are  a  treasure!"  Serina  sighed. 

She  passed  on  to  the  door  of  Prue.  Prue  was  the 
second  daughter.  Rosie,  the  eldest,  had  married 
Tom  Milford  and  moved  away.  She  was  having 
troubles  of  her  own,  and  children  with  a  regularity 
that  led  Serina  to  dislike  Tom  Milford  more  than 
ever. 

Serina  knocked  several  times  at  Prue's  door  with- 
out response.  Then  she  went  in  as  she  always  had 
to.  Prue  was  still  asleep,  and  her  yesterday's 
clothes  seemed  to  be  asleep,  too,  in  all  sorts  of  at- 
titudes and  all  sorts  of  places.  The  only  regularity 
about  th~  room  was  the  fact  that  every  single  thing 
was  out  of  place.  The  dressing-table  held  a  little 
chaos,  including  one  stocking.  The  other  stocking 
was  on  the  floor.  One  silken  garter  glowed  in  the 
southeast  corner  and  one  in  the  northwest.  One 
shoe  reclined  in  the  southwest  corner  and  the  other 
gaped  in  the  northeast.  But  they  were  pretty  shoes. 

Her  frock  was  in  a  heap,  but  it  suggested  a  heap  of 
flowers.  Hair-ribbons  and  ribboned  things  and  a 
crumpled  sash  bedecked  the  carpet.  But  the  pret- 
tiest thing  of  all  was  the  head  half  fallen  from  the 
pillow  and  half  smothered  in  the  tangled  skeins  of 
hair.  One  arm  was  bent  back  over  her  brow  to  shut 
out  the  sunlight  and  the  other  arm  dangled  to  the 
floor.  There  was  something  adorable  about  the 

293 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

round  chin  nestling  in  the  soft  throat.  Her  chin 
seemed  to  frown  with  a  lovable  sullenness.  There 
was  a  mysterious  grace  in  the  very  sprawl  vaguely 
outlined  by  the  long  wrinkles  and  ridges  of  the 
blankets. 

Serina  shook  her  head  over  Prue  in  a  loving  de- 
spair. She  was  the  bad  boy  of  the  family,  impatient, 
exacting,  hot-tempered,  stormy,  luxurious,  yet  never 
monotonous. 

"You  can  always  put  your  hand  on  Ollie,"  Serina 
would  say;  "but  you  never  know  where  Prue  is  from 
one  minute  to  the  next.'* 

Consequently  Ollie  was  not  interesting  and  Prue 
was. 

They  were  all  afraid  of  Prue  and  afraid  for  her. 
They  all  toadied  to  her  and  she  kept  them  excited — 
alarmed,  perhaps;  angry,  oh  yes;  but  never  bored. 

And  there  were  rewards  in  her  service,  too,  for 
she  could  be  as  stormy  with  affection  as  with  mutiny. 
Sometimes  she  would  attack  Serina  with  such  gusts 
of  gratitude  or  admiration  that  her  mother  would 
cry  for  help.  She  would  squeeze  her  father's  ribs 
till  he  gasped  for  breath.  When  she  was  pleased  she 
would  dance  about  the  house  like  a  whirling  maenad 
with  ululations  of  ecstasy.  These  crises  were  sharp, 
but  they  left  a  sweet  taste  in  the  memory. 

So  Prue  had  the  best  clothes  and  did  the  least  work. 
Prue  was  sent  off  to  boarding-school  in  Chicago, 
though  she  had  never  been  able  to  keep  up  with  her 
classes  in  Carthage;  while  Ollie — who  took  first 

294 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

prizes  till  even  the  goody-goody  boys  hated  her — 
stayed  at  home.  She  had  dreamed  of  being  a 
teacher  in  the  High,  but  she  never  mentioned  it,  and 
she  studied  bookkeeping  and  stenography  in  the 
business  college  so  that  she  could  help  her  father. 

Prue  had  not  been  home  long  and  had  come  home 
with  bad  grace.  When  her  father  had  found  it  im- 
possible to  borrow  more  money  even  to  pay  his 
clerks,  to  say  nothing  of  boarding-school  bills,  he  had 
to  write  the  truth  to  Prue.  He  told  her  to  come 
again  to  Carthage. 

She  did  not  come  back  at  once  and  she  refused  to 
explain  why.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  desper- 
ately endeavored  to  find  a  permanent  job  in  Chicago. 
It  was  easy  for  so  attractive  a  girl  to  get  jobs,  but 
it  was  hard  for  so  domineering  a  soul  to  keep  one. 
She  was  regretfully  bounced  out  of  three  department 
stores  in  six  days  for  "sassing"  the  customers  and  the 
aisle-manager. 

She  even  tried  the  theater.  She  was  readily  ac- 
cepted by  a  stage-manager,  but  when  he  found  that 
he  could  not  teach  her  the  usual  figures  or  persuade 
her  to  keep  in  step  or  line  with  the  rest  he  regret- 
fully let  her  go. 

It  was  the  regularity  of  it  that  stumped  Prue. 
She  could  dance  like  a  ballerina  by  herself,  but  she 
could  not  count  "one-two-three-four"  twice  in  suc- 
cession. The  second  time  it  was  "o-o-one-t'three- 
ee-f'r"  and  next  it  would  be  "onety-thry-fo-o-our." 

Prue  hung  about  Chicago,  getting  herself  into 
295 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

scrapes  by  her  charm  and  fighting  her  way  out  of 
them  by  her  ferocious  pride.  Finally  she  went 
hungry  and  came  home.  When  she  learned  the 
extent  of  her  father's  financial  collapse  she  delivered 
tirades  against  the  people  of  Carthage  and  she  sang 
him  up  as  a  genius.  And  then  she  sought  escape 
from  the  depression  at  home  by  seeking  what  gaiety 
Carthage  afforded.  She  made  no  effort  to  master 
the  typewriter  and  she  declined  to  sell  dry-goods. 

Serina  stood  and  studied  the  sleeping  girl,  that 
strange  wild  thing  she  had  borne  and  had  tried  in 
vain  to  control.  She  thought  how  odd  it  was  that  in 
the  mystic  transmission  of  her  life  she  had  given  all 
the  useful  virtues  to  Ollie  and  none  of  them  to  Prue. 
She  wondered  what  she  had  been  thinking  of  to  make 
such  a  mess  of  motherhood.  And  what  could  she 
do  to  correct  the  oversight?  Ollie  did  not  need  re- 
straint, and  Prue  would  not  endure  it.  She  stood 
aloof,  afraid  to  waken  the  girl  to  the  miseries  of 
existence  in  a  household  where  every  day  was  blue 
Monday  now. 

Ollie  had  not  waited  to  be  called.  Ollie  had  risen 
betimes  and  done  all  the  work  that  could  be  done,  and 
stood  ready  to  do  whatever  she  could.  Prue  was 
still  aloll  on  a  bed  of  ease.  Even  to  waken  her  was 
to  waken  a  March  wind.  The  moment  she  was  up 
she  would  have  everybody  running  errands  for  her. 
She  would  be  lavish  in  complaint  and  parsimonious 
of  help.  And  yet  she  was  a  dear!  She  did  enjoy 
her  morning  sleep  so  well.  It  would  be  a  pity  to 

296 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

Mtpk 

disturb  her.  The  rescuing  thought  came  to  Serina 
that  Prue  loved  to  take  a  long  hot  bath  on  Monday 
mornings,  because  on  wash-day  there  was  always  a 
plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  bathroom.  On  other 
mornings  the  hot-water  faucet  suffered  from  a  dis- 
tressing cough  and  nothing  more. 

So  she  tiptoed  out  and  closed  the  door  softly. 


in 

At  breakfast  Ollie  waited  on  the  table  after  com- 
pelling Serina  to  sit  down  and  eat.  There  was  little 
to  tempt  the  appetite  and  no  appetite  to  be  tempted. 

Papa  was  in  the  doldrums.  He  had  always  com- 
plained before  of  having  to  gulp  his  breakfast  and 
hurry  to  the  shop.  And  now  he  complained  because 
there  was  no  hurry;  indeed,  there  was  no  shop.  He 
must  set  out  at  his  time  of  years,  after  his  life  of  in- 
dependent warfare,  to  ask  for  enlistment  as  a  private 
in  some  other  man's  company — in  a  town  where 
vacancies  rarely  occurred  and  where  William  Pep- 
perall  would  not  be  welcome. 

The  whole  town  was  mad  at  him.  He  had  owed 
everybody,  and  then  suddenly  he  owed  nobody.  By 
the  presto-change-o  of  bankruptcy  his  debts  had 
been  passed  from  the  hat  of  unpaid  bills  to  the  hat 
of  worthless  accounts. 

Serina  was  as  dismal  as  any  wife  is  when  she  is 
faced  with  the  prospect  of  having  her  man  hanging 
about  the  house  all  day.  A  wife  in  a  man's  office 

297 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

hours  is  a  nuisance,  but  a  man  at  home  in  household 
office  hours  is  a  pest.  This  was  the  newest  but  not 
the  least  of  Serina's  woes. 

Horace  was  even  glummer  than  ever,  as  soggy  as 
his  own  oatmeal.  At  best  he  was  one  of  those  break- 
fast bruins.  Now  he  was  a  bear  that  has  been  hit 
on  the  nose.  He,  too,  must  seek  a  job.  School  had 
seemed  confining  before,  but  now  that  he  must  go  to 
work,  school  seemed  like  one  long  recess. 

Even  Ollie  was  depressed.  Hers  was  the  misery 
of  an  active  person  denied  activity.  She  had  pre- 
pared herself  as  an  aid  in  her  father's  business, 
and  now  he  had  no  business.  In  this  alkali  desert 
of  inanition  Prue's  vivacious  temper  would  have 
been  welcome. 

"Where's  Prue?"  said  papa  for  the  fifth  time. 

Serina  was  about  to  say  that  she  was  still  asleep 
when  Prue  made  her  presence  known.  Everybody 
was  apprised  that  the  water  had  been  turned  on  in 
the  bathroom;  it  resounded  throughout  the  house. 
It  seemed  to  fall  about  one's  head. 

Prue  was  filling  the  tub  for  her  Monday  morning 
siesta.  She  was  humming  a  strange  tune  over  the 
cascade  like  another  Minnehaha.  And  from  the 
behavior  of  the  dining-room  chandelier  and  the  plates 
on  the  sideboard  she  was  evidently  dancing. 

"What's  that  toon  she's  dancing  to?"  papa  asked, 
after  a  while. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Serina. 

"I  never  heard  it,"  said  Ollie. 
298 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

"Ah,"  growled  Horace,  "it's  the  Argentine  tango." 

"The  tango!"  gasped  papa.  "Isn't  that  the  new 
dance  I've  been  reading  about,  that's  making  a 
sensation  in  New  York  ?" 

"Ah,  wake  up,  pop!"  said  Horace.  "It's  a  sen- 
sation here,  too." 

"In  Carthage?  They're  dancing  the  tango  in  our 
home  town?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know,  pop.  The  whole  burg's 
goin'  bug  over  it." 

"How  is  it  done?     What  is  it  like?" 

"Something  like  this,"  said  Horace,  and,  rising,  he 
indulged  in  the  prehistoric  turkey-trot  of  a  year  ago, 
with  burlesque  hip-snaps  and  poultry-yard  scrapings 
of  the  foot. 

"Stop  it!"  papa  thundered.  "It's  loathsome! 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  my  daughter  does  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"Sure!     She's  a  wonder  at  it." 

"What  scoundrel  taught  my  poor  child  such — 
such —  Who  taught  her,  I  say?" 

"Gosh!"  sniffed  Horace,  "sis  don't  need  teachin'. 
She's  teachin'  the  rest  of  'em.  They're  crazy  about 
her." 

"Teaching  others!  My  g-g-goodness !  Where  did 
she  learn?" 

"Chicago,  I  guess." 

"Oh,  the  wickedness  of  these  cities  and  the 
foreigners  that  are  dragging  our  American  homes 
down  to  their  own  level!" 

299 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"I  guess  the  foreigners  got  nothin'  on  us,"  said 
Horace.  "It's  a  Namerican  dance." 

"What  are  we  coming  to?  Go  tell  Prue  to  come 
here  at  once.  I'll  put  a  stop  to  that  right  here  and 
now." 

Serina  gave  him  one  searing  glance,  and  he  under- 
stood that  he  could  not  deliver  his  edict  to  Prue  yet 
awhile.  He  heard  her  singing  even  more  barbaric 
strains.  The  chandelier  danced  with  a  peculiar 
savagery,  then  the  dance  was  evidently  quenched 
and  subdued.  Awestruck  yowls  from  above  in- 
dicated that  Prue  was  in  hot  water. 

"This  is  the  last  straw!"  groaned  papa,  with  all 
the  wretchedness  of  a  father  learning  that  his 
daughter  was  gone  to  the  bad. 

IV 

Prue  did  not  appear  below-stairs  for  so  long  that 
her  father  had  lost  his  magnificent  running  start  by 
the  time  she  sauntered  in  all  sleek  and  shiny  and 
asked  for  her  food.  She  brought  a  radiant  grace 
into  the  dull  gray  room;  and  Serina  whispered  to 
Will  to  let  her  have  her  breakfast  first. 

She  and  Ollie  waited  on  Prue,  while  the  father 
paced  the  floor,  stealing  sidelong  glances  at  her,  and 
wondering  if  it  were  possible  that  so  sweet  a  thing 
should  be  as  vicious  as  she  would  have  to  be  to  tango. 

When  she  had  scoured  her  plate  and  licked  her 
spoon  with  a  child-like  charm  her  father  began  to 

300 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

crank  up  his  throat  for  a  tirade.  He  began  with 
the  reluctant  horror  of  a  young  attorney  cross- 
examining  his  first  murderer: 

"Prue — I  want  to — to — er —  Prue,  do  you — did 
you — ever —  This — er — this  tango  business —  Prue 
— have  you — do  you — er —  What  do  you  know 
about  it?" 

"Well,  of  course,  papa,  they  change  it  so  fast  on 
you  it's  hard  to  keep  up  with  it,  but  I  was  about  three 
days  ahead  of  Chicago  when  I  left  there.  I  met  with 
a  man  who  had  just  stepped  off  the  twenty-hour 
train  and  I  learned  all  he  knew  before  I  turned  him 
loose."  ' 

In  a  strangled  tone  the  father  croaked,  "You 
dance  it,  then?" 

"You  bet!  Papa,  stand  up  and  I'll  show  you  the 
very  newest  roll.  It's  a  peach.  Put  your  weight 
on  your  right  leg.  Say,  it's  a  shame  we  haven't 
a  phonograph!  Don't  you  suppose  you  could  af- 
ford a  little  one?  I  could  have  you  all  in  fine  form 
in  no  time.  And  it  would  be  so  good  for  mamma." 

Papa  fell  back  into  a  chair  with  just  strength 
enough  to  murmur,  "I  want  you  to  promise  me 
never  to  dance  it  again." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  you  dear  old  bump-on- a-log!" 

"I  forbid  you  to  dance  it  ever  again." 

She  laughed  uproariously:  "Listen  at  the  old 
Skeezicks!  Get  up  here  and  I'll  show  you  the 
cutest  dip." 

When  at  last  he  grew  angry,  and  made  her  realize 

301 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

it,  she  flared  into  a  tumult  of  mutiny  that  drove  him 
out  into  the  rain.  He  spent  the  day  looking  for  a 
job  without  finding  one.  Horace  came  home  wet 
and  discouraged  with  the  same  news.  Ollie,  the 
treasure,  however,  announced  that  she  had  obtained 
a  splendid  position  as  typist  in  Judge  Hippisley's 
office,  at  a  salary  of  thirty  dollars  a  month. 

William  was  overjoyed,  but  Serina  protested  bit- 
terly. She  and  Mrs.  Judge  Hippisley  had  been  bit- 
ter social  rivals  for  twenty  years.  They  had  fought 
each  other  with  teas  and  euchre  parties  and  recep- 
tions from  young  wifehood  to  middle-aged  portliness. 
And  now  her  daughter  was  to  work  in  that  hateful 
Anastasia  Hippisley's  old  fool  of  a  husband's  office? 
Well,  hardly! 

"It's  better  than  starving,"  said  Ollie,  and  for 
once  would  not  be  coerced,  though  even  her  dis- 
obedience was  on  the  ground  of  service.  After  she 
had  cleared  the  table  and  washed  the  dishes  she 
set  out  for  her  room,  lugging  a  typewriter  she  had 
borrowed  to  brush  up  her  speed  on. 

Prue  had  begged  off  from  even  wiping  the  dishes, 
because  she  had  to  dress.  As  Ollie  started  up-stairs 
to  her  task  she  was  brought  back  by  the  door-bell. 
She  ushered  young  Orton  Hippisley  into  the  parlor. 
He  had  come  to  take  Prue  to  a  dance. 

When  papa  heard  this  mamma  had  to  hold  her 
hand  over  his  mouth  to  keep  him  from  making  a 
scene.  He  was  for  kicking  young  Hippisley  out  of 
the  house. 

302 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

"And  lose  me  my  job?"  gasped  Ollie. 

The  overpowered  parent  whispered  his  determina- 
tion to  go  up-stairs  and  forbid  Prue  to  leave.  He 
went  up-stairs  and  forbade  her,  but  she  went  right  on 
binding  her  hair  with  Ollie's  best  ribbon.  In  the 
midst  of  her  father's  peroration  she  kissed  him  good- 
by  and  danced  down-stairs  in  Ollie's  new  slippers. 
Her  own  had  been  trotted  into  shreds. 

Papa  sat  fuming  all  evening.  He  would  not  go  to 
bed  till  Prue  came  home  to  the  ultimatum  he  was 
preparing  for  her.  From  above  came  the  tick-tock- 
tock  of  Ollie's  typewriter.  It  got  on  his  nerves,  like 
rain  on  a  tin  roof. 

"To  think  of  it — Ollie  up-stairs  working  her  fingers 
to  the  bone  to  help  us  out,  and  Prue  dancing  her  feet 
off  disgracing  us!  To  think  that  one  of  our  daugh- 
ters should  be  so  good  and  one  so  bad!" 

"I  can't  believe  that  our  little  Prue  is  really  bad," 
Serina  sighed. 

"Yet  girls  do  go  wrong,  don't  they?"  her  husband 
groaned.  "This  morning's  paper  prints  a  sermon 
about  the  tango.  Reverend  Doctor  What's-his- 
name,  the  famous  New  York  newspaper  preacher, 
tears  the  whole  tango  crowd  to  pieces.  He  points 
out  that  the  tango  is  the  cause  of  the  present-day 
wickedness,  the  ruin  of  the  home!" 

Serina  was  dismal  and  terrified,  but  from  force  of 
habit  she  took  the  opposite  side. 

"Oh,  they  were  complaining  of  divorces  long  before 
the  tango  was  ever  heard  of.  That  same  preacher 

303 


IN_A, LITTLE   TOWN 

used  to  blame  them  on  the  bicycle,  then  on  the 
automobile  and  the  movies.  And  now  it's  the  tango. 
It  '11  be  flying-machines  next." 

Papa  was  used  to  fighting  with  mamma,  and  he 
roared  with  fine  leoninity:  "Are  you  defending  your 
daughter's  shamelessness?  Do  you  approve  of  the 
tango?" 

"I've  never  seen  it." 

"Then  it  must  be  just  because  you  always  en- 
courage your  children  to  flout  my  authority.  I 
never  could  keep  any  discipline  because  you  always 
fought  for  them,  encouraged  them  to  disobey  their 

^        1  j> 

She  chanted  her  responses  according  to  the  familiar 
family  antipathy  antiphony.  They  talked  them- 
selves out  eventually;  but  Prue  was  not  home. 
Ollie  gradually  typewrote  herself  to  sleep  and  Prue 
was  not  home.  Horace  came  in  from  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
bowling-alley  and  went  to  bed,  and  Prue  was  not 
home. 

The  old  heads  nodded.  The  sentinels  slept.  At 
some  dimly  distant  time  papa  woke  with  a  start 
and  inquired,  "Huh?" 

Mamma  jumped  and  gasped,  "Who?" 

They  were  shivering  with  the  after-midnight  chill 
of  the  cold  room,  and  Prue  was  not  home.  Papa 
snapped  his  watch  open  and  snapped  it  shut;  and  the 
same  to  his  jaw: 

"Two  o'clock!  And  Prue  not  home.  I'm  going 
after  her!" 

304 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

He  thrust  into  his  overcoat,  slapped  his  hat  on  his 
aching  head,  flung  open  the  door.  And  Prue  came 
home. 

She  was  alone!    And  in  tears! 


As  papa's  overcoat  slid  off  his  arms  and  his  hat  off 
his  head  she  tore  down  her  gloves,  tossed  her  cloak 
in  the  direction  of  the  hat-tree  and  stumbled  up  the 
stairs,  sobbing.  Her  mother  caught  her  hand. 

"What's  the  matter,  honey?" 

Prue  wrenched  loose  and  went  on  up. 

Father  and  mother  stared  at  her,  then  at  each 
other,  then  at  the  floor.  Each  read  the  same  un- 
speakable fear  in  the  other's  soul.  Serina  ran  up 
the  stairs  as  fast  as  she  could.  William  automati- 
cally locked  the  doors  and  windows,  turned  out  the 
lights,  and  followed. 

He  paused  in  the  upper  hall  to  listen.  Prue  was 
explaining  at  last. 

"It's  that  Orton  Hippisley,"  Prue  sobbed. 

"What — what  has  he  done?"  Serina  pleaded,  and 
Prue  sobbed  on: 

"Oh,  he  got  fresh!  Some  of  these  fellas  in  this 
town  think  that  because  a  girl  likes  to  have  a  good 
time  and  knows  how  to  dance  they  can  get  fresh 
with  her.  I  didn't  like  the  way  Ort  Hippisley  held 
me  and  I  told  him.  Finally  I  wouldn't  dance  any 
more  with  him.  I  gave  his  dances  to  Grant  Beadle 

305 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

till  the  last;  then  Ort  begged  so  hard  I  said  all  right. 
And  he  danced  like  a  gentleman.  But  on  the  way 
home  he — he  put  his  arm  round  me.  And  when  I 
told  him  to  take  it  away  he  wouldn't.  He  said 
I  had  been  in  his  arms  half  the  evening  before  folks, 
and  if  I  hadn't  minded  then  I  oughtn't  to  mind  now. 
And  I  said:  'Is  that  so?  Well,  it's  mighty  different 
when  you're  dancing/  And  he  said,  'Oh  no,  it  isn't/ 
and  I  said,  'Oh  yes,  it  is/  And  he  tried  to  kiss  me  and 
I  hauled  off  and  smashed  him  right  in  the  nose.  It 
bloodied  all  over  his  dress  soot,  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

Somehow  Papa  Pepperall  felt  such  an  impulse  to 
give  three  cheers  that  he  had  to  put  his  own  hand 
over  his  mouth.  He  tiptoed  to  his  room,  and  when 
mamma  appeared  to  announce  with  triumph,  "I 
guess  Prue  hasn't  gone  to  the  bad  yet,"  papa  said: 
"Who  said  she  had?  Prue  is  the  finest  girl  in 
America!" 

"I  thought  you  were  saying — " 

"Why  can't  you  ever  once  get  me  right?  I  was 
saying  that  Prue  is  too  fine  a  girl  to  be  allowed  to 
mingle  with  that  tango  set.  I'm  going  to  cowhide 
that  Hippisley  cub.  And  Prue's  not  going  to  an- 
other one  of  those  dances." 

But  he  didn't.    And  she  did. 


VI 

Ollie  was  up  betimes  the  next  morning  to  get 
breakfast  and  make  haste  to  her  office.     She  was  so 

306 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

excited  that  she  dropped  a  stove-lid  on  the  coal- 
scuttle just  as  her  mother  appeared. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  less  noise!"  Serina  whispered. 
"You'll  wake  poor  Prue!" 

Ollie  next  dropped  the  tray  she  had  just  unloaded 
on  the  table.  Serina  was  furious.  Ollie  whispered: 

"I'm  so  nervous  for  fear  I've  lost  my  job  at  Judge 
Hippisley's,  now  that  Prue  had  to  go  and  slap 
Orton." 

"Always  thinking  of  yourself,"  was  Senna's  re- 
buke. "  Don't  be  so  selfish !" 

But  Ollie's  fears  were  wasted.  Orton  Hippisley 
might  have  boasted  of  kisses  he  did  not  get,  but  not 
of  the  slaps  that  he  did.  He  had  gained  a  new  re- 
spect for  Prue,  and  at  the  first  opportunity  pleaded 
for  forgiveness,  eying  her  little  fist  the  while.  He 
begged  her  to  go  with  him  to  a  dance  at  his  home 
that  evening. 

She  forgave  him  for  the  sake  of  the  invitation — 
and  she  glided  and  dipped  at  the  judge's  house  while 
Ollie  spent  the  evening  in  his  office  trying  to  finish 
the  day's  work.  Her  speed  was  not  yet  up  to  re- 
quirements. Prue's  speed  was. 

Other  girls  watched  Prue  manipulating  her  mem- 
bers in  the  intricate  mechanisms  of  the  latest  dances. 
They  begged  her  to  teach  them,  but  she  laughed  and 
said:  "It's  easy.  Just  watch  what  I  do  and  do  the 
same." 

So   Raphael   told   his   pupils   and   Napoleon   his 

subordinates. 
21 


That  night  Ollie  and  Prue  reached  home  at  nearly 
the  same  time.  Ollie  told  how  well  she  was  getting 
along  in  the  judge's  office.  Prue  told  how  she  had 
made  wall-flowers  of  everybody  else  in  Mrs.  Hip- 
pisley's  parlor.  Let  those  who  know  a  mother's 
heart  decide  which  daughter  Serina  was  the  prouder 
of,  the  good  or  the  bad. 

She  told  William  about  it — how  Ollie  had  learned 
to  type  letters  with  both  hands  and  how  Prue  got 
there  with  both  feet.  And  papa  said,  "She's  a  great 
girl!" 

And  that  was  singular. 

VII 

A  few  mornings  later  Judge  Hippisley  stopped 
William  on  the  street  and  spoke  in  his  best  bench 


manner: 
tt 


Will,  I  hate  to  speak  about  your  daughter,  but 
I've  got  to." 

"Why,  Judge,  what's  Ollie  done?  Isn't  she  fast 
enough  ?" 

"Ollie's  all  right.  Fm  speaking  of  Prue.  She's 
entirely  too  fast.  I  want  you  to  tell  her  to  let  my 
son  alone." 

"Why,  I— you— he— " 

"My  boy  was  clerking  in  Beadle's  hardware-store, 
learning  the  business  and  earning  twelve  dollars  a 
week.  And  now  he  spends  half  his  time  dancing 
with  that  dam — daughter  of  yours.  And  Beadle 

308 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

is  going  to  fire  him  if  he  doesn't  'tend  to  business 
better." 

"I — I'll  speak  to  Prue,"  was  all  Pepperall  dared  to 
say.  The  judge  had  too  many  powers  over  him  to 
be  talked  back  to. 

Papa  spoke  to  Prue  and  it  amused  her  very  much. 
She  said  that  old  Mr.  Beadle  had  better  speak  to  his 
own  boy,  who  was  Orton's  fiercest  rival  at  the  dances. 
And  as  for  the  fat  old  judge,  he'd  better  take  up 
dancing  himself. 

The  following  Sunday  three  of  the  Carthage 
preachers  attacked  the  tango.  One  of  them  used  for 
his  text  Matthew  xiv:  6,  and  the  other  used  Mark 
vi:22.  Both  told  how  John  the  Baptist  had  lost 
his  head  over  Salome's  dancing.  Doctor  Brearley 
chose  Isaiah  lix:y  "Their  feet  run  to  evil  .  .  .  their 
thoughts  are  thoughts  of  iniquity;  wasting  and  de- 
struction are  in  their  paths." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepperall  and  Ollie  sat  under  Doctor 
Brearley.  Prue  had  slept  too  late  to  be  present. 
Doctor  Brearley  blamed  so  many  of  the  evils  of  the 
world  on  the  tango  craze  that  if  a  visitor  from 
Mars  had  dropped  into  a  pew  he  might  have  judged 
that  the  world  had  been  an  Eden  till  the  tango  came. 
But  then  Doctor  Brearley  had  always  blamed  old 
things  on  new  things. 

It  was  a  ferocious  sermon,  however,  and  the  winc- 
ing Pepperalls  felt  that  it  was  aimed  directly  at  them. 
When  Doctor  Brearley  denounced  modern  parents 
for  their  own  godlessness  and  the  irreligion  of  their 

309 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

homes,  William  took  the  blame  to  himself.  On  his 
way  home  he  announced  his  determination  to  resume 
the  long-neglected  family  custom  of  reading  from  the 
Bible. 

After  the  heavy  Sabbath  dinner  had  been  eaten — 
Prue  was  up  in  time  for  this  rite — he  gathered  his 
little  flock  in  the  parlor  for  a  solemn  while.  It  had 
been  his  habit  to  choose  the  reading  of  the  day  at 
random — he  called  it  "letting  the  Lord  decide." 
The  big  rusty-hinged  Bible  fell  open  with  a  loud 
puff  of  dust  several  years  old.  Papa  adjusted  his 
spectacles  and  read  what  he  found  before  him: 

"Nehemiah  x:  'Now  those  that  sealed  were, 
Nehemiah,  the  Tirshatha,  the  son  of  Hachaliah,  and 
Zidkijah,  Seraiah,  Azariah,  Jeremiah,  Pashur,  Ama- 
riah,  Malchijah,  Hattush  .  .  .'"  He  began  to  breathe 
hard.  He  was  lost  in  an  impenetrable  forest  of 
names,  and  he  could  not  pronounce  one  of  them. 
He  sneaked  a  peek  ahead,  dimly  made  out  "Bunni, 
Hizkijah,  Magpiash  and  Hashub,"  and  choked. 

It  looked  like  sacrilege,  but  he  ventured  to  close 
the  Book  and  open  it  once  more. 

This  time  he  happened  on  the  last  chapter  of  the 
Book  of  Judges,  wherein  is  the  chronicle  of  the 
plight  of  the  tribe  of  Benjamin,  which  could  not  get 
women  to  marry  into  it.  The  wife  famine  of  the 
Benjamites  was  not  in  the  least  interesting  to 
Mr.  Pepperall,  but  he  would  not  tempt  the  Lord 
again.  So  he  read  on,  while  the  children  yawned 
and  shuffled,  Prue  especially. 

310 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

Suddenly  Prue  sat  still  and  listened,  and  papa's 
cough  grew  worse.  He  was  reading  about  the 
"feast  of  the  Lord  in  Shiloh  yearly,"  and  how  the 
elders  of  the  congregation  ordered  the  children  of 
Benjamin  to  go  and  lie  in  wait  in  the  vineyards. 

"'And  see,  and  behold,  if  the  daughters  of  Shiloh 
come  out  to  dance  in  dances,  then  come  ye  out  of  the 
vineyards  and  catch  you  every  man  his  wife  of  the 
daughters  of  Shiloh.  .  .  . 

"'And  the  children  of  Benjamin  did  so,  and  took 
them  wives,  according  to  their  number,  of  them  that 
danced,  whom  they  caught:  and  they  went  and  re- 
turned unto  their  inheritance,  and  repaired  the 
cities,  and  dwelt  in  them.  .  .  . 

"'In  those  days  there  was  no  king  in  Israel;  every 
man  did  that  which  was  right  in  his  own  eyes." 

He  closed  the  Book  and  stole  a  glance  at  Prue. 
Her  eyes  were  so  bright  with  triumph  that  he  had  to 
say: 

"Of  course  that  proves  nothing  about  dancing. 
It  doesn't  say  that  the  Shiloh  girls  made  good  wives." 

Prue  had  the  impudence  to  add,  "And  it  doesn't 
say  that  the  sons  of  Benjamin  were  good  dancers." 

Her  father  silenced  her  with  a  scowl  of  horror. 
Then  he  made  a  long  prayer,  directed  more  at  his 
family  than  at  the  Lord.  It  apparently  had  an 
equal  effect  on  each.  After  a  hymn  had  been 
mumbled  through  the  family  dispersed. 

Prue  lingered  just  long  enough  to  capture  the  Bible 
and  carry  it  off  to  her  room  in  a  double  embrace. 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

Serina  and  William  tried  to  be  glad  to  see  her  sudden 
interest,  but  they  were  a  little  afraid  of  her  exact 
motive. 

She  made  no  noise  at  all  and  did  not  come  down 
in  time  to  help  get  supper — the  sad,  cold  supper  of  a 
Sunday  evening.  She  slipped  into  the  dining-room 
just  before  the  family  was  called.  Papa  found  at  his 
plate  a  neat  little  stack  of  cards,  bearing  each  a 
carefully  lettered  legend  in  Prue's  writing.  He 
picked  them  up,  glanced  at  them,  and  flushed. 

"I  dare  you  to  read  them,"  said  Prue. 

So  he  read:  '!<To  every  thing  there  is  a  season, 
and  a  time  to  every  purpose  under  the  heaven  ...  a 
time  to  mourn  and  a  time  to  dance.  .  . .  He  hath  made 
every  thing  beautiful  in  his  time.'  Ecclesiastes  iii. 

"Let  them  praise  his  name  in  the  dance  .  .  .  for 
the  Lord  taketh  pleasure  in  his  people.  .  .  .  Praise 
him  with  the  timbrel  and  dance.  .  .  .  Praise  him 
upon  the  loud  cymbals.'  Psalms  cxlix,  cl. 

"'O  virgin  of  Israel  .  .  .  thou  shalt  go  forth  in 
the  dances  of  them  that  make  merry.  .  .  .  Then 
shall  the  virgin  rejoice  in  the  dance,  both  young  men 
and  old  together.'  Jeremiah  xxxi. 

"We  have  piped  unto  you,  and  ye  have  not 
danced.'  Matthew  xi:  17. 

"Michal,  Saul's  daughter,  looked  through  a  win- 
dow, and  saw  King  David  leaping  and  dancing  before 
the  Lord;  and  she  despised  him  in  her  heart.  .  .  . 
Therefore  Michal  the  daughter  of  Saul  had  no  child 
unto  the  day  of  her  death.'  II  Samuel  vi:  16,  23." 

312 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Papa  did  not  fall  back  upon  the  Shaksperean  de- 
fense that  the  devil  can  quote  Scripture  to  his  pur- 
pose. He  choked  a  little  and  rilled  his  hand  with 
the  apple-butter  he  was  spreading  on  his  cold 
biscuit.  Then  he  said: 

"It's  not  that  I  don't  believe  in  dancing.  I  don't 
say  all  dances  are  immor'l." 

"You  better  not,"  said  Serina,  darkly.  "You  met 
me  at  a  dance.  We  used  to  dance  all  the  time  till 
you  got  so's  you  wouldn't  take  me  to  parties  any 
more.  And  you  got  so  clumsy  and  I  began  to  take 
on  flesh,  and  ran  short  of  breath  like." 

"Oh,  there's  mor  1  dances  as  well  as  immor'l 
dances,"  William  confessed,  not  knowing  the  history 
of  the  opposition  every  dance  has  encountered  in  its 
younger  days.  "The  waltz  now,  or  the  lancers  or 
the  Virginia  reel.  Even  the  two-step  was  all  right. 
But  this  turkey-trot-tango  business — it's  goin'  to  be 
the  ruination  of  the  home.  It  isn't  fit  for  decent 
folks  to  look  at,  let  alone  let  their  daughters  do.  I 
want  you  should  quit  it,  Prue.  If  you  need  exercise 
help  your  mother  with  the  housework.  You  go  and 
tango  round  with  a  broom  awhile.  I  don't  see  why 
you  don't  try  to  help  your  sister,  too,  and  make  some- 
thing useful  of  yourself.  I  tell  you,  in  these  days  a 
woman  ought  to  be  able  to  earn  her  own  living 
same's  a  man.  You  could  get  a  good  position  in 
Shillaber's  dry-goods  store  if  you  only  would." 

Prue  wriggled  her  shoulders  impatiently  and  said: 
"I  guess  I'm  one  of  those  Shiloh  girls.  I'll  just 

313 


IN   A   LITTLE    TOWN 

dance  round  awhile,  and  maybe  some  rich  Benjamin 
gent'man  will  grab  me  and  take  me  off  your  hands." 


VIII 

One  evening  Prue  came  home  late  to  supper  after 
a  session  at  Bertha  Appleby's.  An  informal  gather- 
ing had  convened  under  the  disguise  of  a  church- 
society  meeting,  only  to  degenerate  into  a  dancing- 
bee  after  a  few  perfunctory  formalities. 

Prue  had  just  time  to  seize  a  bite  before  she  went 
to  dress  for  a  frankly  confessed  dancing-bout  at 
Eliza  Erf's.  As  she  ate  with  angry  voracity  she 
complained  : 

"I  guess  I'll  just  quit  going  to  dances.  I  don't 
have  a  bit  of  fun  any  more." 

Her  father  started  from  his  chair  to  embrace  the 
returned  prodigal,  but  he  dropped  into  Ollie's  place 
as  Prue  exclaimed: 

"Everybody  is  always  at  me  for  help.  'Prue,  is 
this  right?'  'Prue,  teach  me  that.'  'Oh,  what  did 
you  do  then?'  'Is  it  the  inside  foot  or  the  outside 
you  start  on?'  'Do  you  drop  on  the  front  knee  or 
the  hind?'  'Do  you  do  the  Innovation?'  Why,  it's 
worse  than  teaching  school!" 

"Why  don't  you  teach  school?"  said  William, 
feebly.  "There's  going  to  be  a  vacancy  in  the 
kindergarten." 

Prue  sniffed.  "I  see  myself!"  And  went  to  her 
room  to  dress. 

3H 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Her  father  sank  back  discouraged.  What  ailed 
the  girl  ?  She  simply  would  not  take  life  seriously. 
She  would  not  lift  her  hand  to  help.  When  they 
were  so  poor  and  the  future  so  dour,  how  could  she 
keep  from  earning  a  little  money?  Was  she  con- 
demned to  be  altogether  useless,  shiftless,  unprofit- 
able ?  A  weight  about  her  father's  neck  till  he  could 
shift  her  to  the  neck  of  some  unhappy  husband? 

He  remembered  the  fable  of  the  ant  and  the  locust. 
Prue  was  the  locust,  frivoling  away  the  summer. 
At  the  first  cold  blast  she  would  be  pleading  with  the 
industrious  ant,  Ollie.  to  take  her  in.  In  the  fable 
the  locust  was  turned  away  to  freeze,  but  you 
couldn't  do  that  with  a  human  locust.  The  ants 
just  have  to  feed  them.  Poor  Ollie! 

Munching  this  quinine  cud  of  thought,  he  went  up 
to  bed.  He  was  footsore  from  tramping  the  town 
for  work.  He  had  covered  almost  as  much  distance 
as  Prue  had  danced.  He  was  all  in.  She  was  just 
going  out. 

She  kissed  him  good  night,  but  he  would  not 
answer.  She  went  to  kiss  her  mother  and  Ollie  and 
Horace.  Ollie  was  practising  shorthand,  and  kissed 
Prue  with  sorrowing  patience.  Horace  dodged  the 
kiss,  but  called  her  attention  to  an  article  in  the 
evening  paper: 

"Say,  Prue,  if  you  want  to  get  rich  quick  whyn't 
you  charge  for  your  tango  advice?  Says  here  that 
teachers  are  springing  up  all  over  Noo  York  and 
Chicawgo,  and  they  get  big,  immense  prices." 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"  How  much  ?"  said  Prue,  indifferently. 

"Says  here  twenty-five  dollars  an  hour.  Some  of 
'em's  earning  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  a  week." 

This  information  went  through  the  room  like  a 
projectile  from  a  coast-defense  gun.  Serina  listened 
with  bated  breath  as  Horace  read  the  confirmation. 
She  shook  her  head: 

"It  beats  all  the  way  vice  pays  in  this  world." 

Horace  read  on.  The  article  described  how  some 
of  the  most  prominent  women  in  metropolitan  society 
were  sponsoring  the  dances.  A  group  of  ladies,  whose 
names  were  more  familiar  to  Serina  than  the  Chris- 
tian martyrs,  had  rented  a  whole  dwelling-house  for 
a  dancing  couple  to  disport  in,  so  that  the  universal 
amusement  could  be  practised  exclusively. 

That  settled  Serina.     Whatever  Mrs.  and 

Miss and  the  mother  of  the  Duchess  of 

did  was  better  than  right.     It  was  swell. 

Prue's  frown  now  was  the  frown  of  meditation. 
"If  they  charge  twenty-five  dollars  an  hour  in  New 
York,  what  ought  to  be  the  price  in  Carthage?" 

"About  five  cents  a  week,"  said  Serina,  who  did  not 
approve  of  Carthage.  "Nobody  in  this  town  would 
pay  anything  for  anything." 

"We  used  to  pay  old  Professor  Durand  to  teach 
us  to  waltz  and  polka,"  said  Horace,  "in  the  good 
old  days  before  pop  got  the  bankruptcy  habit." 

That  night  Prue  made  an  experiment.  She  danced 
exclusively  with  Ort  Hippisley  and  Grant  Beadle,  the 
surest-footed  bipeds  in  the  town.  When  members  of 

316 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

the  awkward  squad  pleaded  to  cut  in  she  danced 
away  impishly,  will-o'-the-wispishly.  When  the 
girls  lifted  their  skirts  and  asked  her  to  correct  their 
footwork  she  referred  them  to  the  articles  in  the 
magazines. 

She  was  chiefly  pestered  by  Idalene  Brearley, 
daughter  of  the  clergyman,  and  his  chief  cross. 

Finally  Idalene  Brearley  tore  Prue  from  the  arms 
of  Ort  Hippisley,  backed  her  into  a  corner,  and 
said: 

"Say,  Prue,  you've  got  to  listen!  I'm  invited  to 
visit  the  swellest  home  in  Council  Bluffs  for  a  house- 
party.  They  call  itfa  week-end;  that  shows  how 
swell  they  are.  They're  going  to  dance  all  the  time. 
When  it  comes  to  these  new  dances  I'm  weak  at 
both  ends,  head  and  feet."  She  laughed  shamelessly 
at  her  own  joke,  as  women  do.  "I  don't  want  to 
go  there  like  I'd  never  been  any  place,  or  like  Car- 
thage wasn't  up  to  date.  I'm  just  beginning  to  get 
the  hang  of  the  Maxixe  and  the  Hesitation,  and  I 
thought  if  you  could  give  me  a  couple  of  days' 
real  hard  work  I  wouldn't  be  such  an  awful  gump. 
Could  you?  Do  you  suppose  you  could?  Or  could 
you?" 

Prue  looked  such  astonishment  at  this  that  Idalene 
hastened  to  say: 

"O*  course  I'm  not  asking  you  to  kill  yourself  for 
nothing.  How  much  would  you  charge?  Of  course 
I  haven't  much  saved  up;  but  I  thought  if  I  took 
two  lessons  a  day  you  could  make  me  a  special  rate. 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

How  much  would  it  be,  d'you  s'pose?  Or  what  do 
you  think?" 

Prue  wondered.  This  was  a  new  and  thrilling 
moment  for  her.  A  boy  is  excited  enough  over  the 
first  penny  he  earns,  but  he  is  brought  up  to  earn 
money.  To  a  girl,  and  a  girl  like  Prue,  the  luxury 
was  almost  intolerably  intense.  She  finally  found 
voice  to  murmur: 

"How  much  you  gettin'  for  the  lessons  you 
give?" 

Idalene  had,  for  the  sake  of  pin  money,  been 
giving  a  few  alleged  lessons  in  piano,  voice,  water- 
colors,  bridge  whist,  fancy  stitching,  brass-hammer- 
ing, and  things  like  that.  She  answered  Prue  with 
reluctance: 

"I  get  fifty  cents  an  hour.  But  o'  course  I  make 
a  specialty  of  those  things." 

"I'm  making  a  specialty  of  dancing,"  said  Prue, 
coldly. 

Idalene  was  torn  between  the  bitterly  opposite 
emotions  of  getting  and  giving.  Prue  tried  to  speak 
with  indifference,  but  she  looked  as  greedy  as  the 
old  miser  in  the  "Chimes  of  Normandy." 

"Fifty  cents  suits  me,  seeing  it's  you." 

Idalene  gasped:  "Well,  o'  course,  two  lessons  a 
day  would  be  a  dollar.  Could  you  make  it  six  bits 
by  wholesale?" 

Prue  didn't  see  how  she  could.  Teaching  would 
interfere  so  with  her  amusements.  Finally  Idalene 
sighed: 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

"Oh,  well,  all  right!  Call  it  fifty  cents  straight. 
When  can  I  come  over  to  your  house?" 

"To  my  house?"  gasped  Prue.  "Papa  doesn't 
approve  of  my  dancing.  I'll  come  to  yours." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't,"  gasped  Idalene.  "My  father 
doesn't  dream  that  I  dance.  I'm  going  to  let  him 
sleep  as  long  as  I  can." 

Here  was  a  plight!  Mrs.  Judge  Hippisley  strolled 
up  and  demanded,  "What's  all  this  whispering 
about?" 

They  explained  their  predicament.  Mrs.  Hip- 
pisley thought  it  was  a  perfectly  wonderful  idea  to 
take  lessons.  She  would  let  Prue  teach  Idalene  in 
her  parlor  if  Prue  would  teach  her  at  the  same  time 
for  nothing. 

"Unless  you  think  I'm  too  old  and  stupid  to 
learn,"  she  added,  fishingly. 

Prue  put  a  catfish  on  her  hook:  "Oh,  Mrs.  Hip- 
pisley, I've  seen  women  much  older  and  fatter  and 
stupider  than  you  dancing  in  Chicago." 

While  the  hours  of  tuition  were  being  discussed 
Bertha  Appleby  tiptoed  up  to  eavesdrop,  and  pleaded 
to  be  accepted  as  a  pupil.  And  she  forced  on  the 
timorous  Prue  a  quarter  as  her  matriculation  fee. 

Orton  Hippisley  beau'd  Prue  home  that  night,  and 
they  paused  in  an  arcade  of  maples  to  practise  a  new 
step  she  had  been  composing  in  the  back  of  her  head. 

He  was  an  apt  pupil,  and  when  they  had  resumed 
their  homeward  stroll  she  neglected  to  make  him 
take  his  arm  away.  Encouraged,  he  tried  to  kiss 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

her  when  they  reached  the  gate.  She  cuffed  him 
again,  but  this  time  her  buffet  was  almost  a  caress. 
She  sighed: 

"I  can't  get  very  mad  at  you,  you're  such  a 
quick  student.  I  hope  your  mother  will  learn  as 
fast." 

"My  mother!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes.     She  wants  me  to  teach  her  the  one-step." 

"Don't  you  dare!" 

"And  why  not?"  she  asked,  with  sultry  calm. 

"Do  you  think  I'll  let  my  mother  carry  on  like 
that?  Well,  hardly!" 

"Oh,  so  what  I  do  isn't  good  enough  for  your 
mother!" 

"I  don't  mean  just  that;  but  can't  you  see —  Wait 
a  minute — 

She  slammed  the  gate  on  his  outstretched  fingers 
and  he  went  home  fondling  his  wound. 

The  next  day  he  strolled  by  the  parlor  door  at  his 
own  home,  but  Prue  would  not  speak  to  him  and  his 
mother  was  too  busy  to  invite  him  in.  It  amazed 
him  to  see  how  humble  his  haughty  mother  was  be- 
fore the  hitherto  neglected  Prue. 

Prue  would  have  felt  sorrier  for  him  if  she  had  not 
been  so  exalted  over  her  earnings. 

She  had  not  let  on  at  home  about  her  class  till  she 
could  lay  the  proof  of  her  success  on  the  supper- 
table.  When  she  stacked  up  the  entire  two  dollars 
that  she  had  earned  by  only  a  few  miles  of  trotting, 
it  looked  like  the  loot  the  mercenaries  captured  in 

320 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

that  old  Carthage  which  the  new  Carthage  had  never 
heard  of. 

The  family  was  aghast.  It  was  twice  as  much  as 
Ollie  had  earned  that  day.  Ollie's  money  "came 
reg'lar,"  of  course,  and  would  total  up  more  in  the 
long  run. 

But  for  Prue  to  earn  anything  was  a  miracle.  And 
in  Carthage  two  dollars  is  two  dollars,  at  the  very 
least. 

IX 

The  news  that  Carthage  had  a  tango-teacher 
created  a  sensation  rivaling  the  advent  of  its  first 
street-car.  It  gave  the  place  a  metropolitan  flavor. 
If  it  only  had  a  slums  district,  now,  it  would  be  a  great 
and  gloriously  wicked  city. 

Prue  was  fairly  besieged  with  applicants  for  les- 
sons. Those  who  could  dance  a  few  steps  wanted  the 
new  steps.  Those  who  could  not  dance  at  all 
wanted  to  climb  aboard  the  ark. 

Mrs.  Hippisley's  drawing-room  did  not  long  serve 
its  purpose.  On  the  third  day  the  judge  stalked  in. 
He  came  home  with  a  chill.  At  the  sight  of  his  wife 
with  one  knee  up,  trying  to  paw  like  a  horse,  his 
chill  changed  to  fever.  His  roar  was  heard  in  the 
kitchen.  He  was  so  used  to  domineering  that  he 
was  not  even  afraid  of  his  wife  when  he  was  in  the 
first  flush  of  rage. 

Prue  and  Idalene  and  Bertha  he  would  have  sen- 
tenced to  deportation  if  he  had  had  the  jurisdiction. 

321 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  could  at  least  send  them  home.  He  threatened 
his  wife  with  dire  punishments  if  she  ever  took  an- 
other step  of  the  abominable  dance. 

Prue  was  afraid  of  the  judge,  but  she  was  not 
afraid  of  her  own  father.  She  told  him  that  she 
was  going  to  use  the  parlor,  and  he  told  her  that  she 
wasn't.  The  next  day  he  came  home  to  find  the 
class  installed. 

He  peeked  into  the  parlor  and  saw  Bertha  Appleby 
dancing  with  Idalene  Brearley.  Prue  was  in  the 
arms  of  old  "Tawm"  Kinch,  the  town  scoundrel,  a 
bald  and  wealthy  old  bachelor  who  had  lingered  un- 
caught  like  a  wise  old  trout  in  a  pool,  though  genera- 
tions of  girls  had  tried  every  device,  from  whipping 
the  stream  to  tickling  his  sides.  He  had  refused 
every  bait  and  lived  more  or  less  alone  in  the  big  old 
mansion  he  had  inherited  from  his  skinflint  mother. 

At  the  sight  of  Tawm  Kinch  in  his  parlor  embrac- 
ing his  daughter  and  bungling  an  odious  dance  with 
her,  William  Pepperall  saw  red.  He  would  throw 
the  old  brute  out  of  his  house.  As  he  made  his 
temper  ready  Mrs.  Judge  Hippisley  hurried  up  the 
hall.  She  had  walked  round  the  block,  crossed  two 
back  yards  and  climbed  the  kitchen  steps  to  throw 
the  judge  off  the  scent.  William  could  hardly  make 
a  scene  before  these  women.  He  could  only  protest 
by  leaving  the  house. 

He  found  that,  having  let  the  outrage  go  unpun- 
ished, once,  it  was  hard  to  work  up  steam  to  drive  it 
out  the  second  day.  Also  he  remembered  that  he 

322 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

had  asked  Tawm  Kinch  for  a  position  in  his  sash-and- 
blind  factory  and  Tawm  had  said  he  would  see  about 
it.  Attacking  Tawm  Kinch  would  be  like  assaulting 
his  future  bread  and  butter.  He  kept  away  from 
the  house  as  much  as  he  could,  sulking  like  a  punished 
boy.  One  evening  as  he  went  home  to  supper,  pur- 
posely delaying  as  long  as  possible,  he  saw  Tawm 
Kinch  coming  from  the  house.  He  ran  down  the 
steps  like  an  urchin  and  seized  William's  hand  as  if  he 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  long  time. 

"Take  a  walk  with  me,  Bill,"  he  said,  and  led 
William  along  an  unfrequented  side  street.  After 
much  hemming  and  hawing  he  began:  "Bill,  I  got  a 
proposition  to  make  you.  I  find  there's  a  possibility 
of  a  p'sition  openin'  up  in  the  works  and  maybe  I 
could  fit  you  into  it  if  you'd  do  something  for  me." 

William  tried  not  to  betray  his  overweening  joy. 

"I'd  always  do  anything  for  you,  Tawm,"  he  said. 
"I  always  liked  you,  always  spoke  well  of  you,  which 
is  more  'n  I  can  say  of  some  of  the  other  folks  round 
here." 

Tawm  was  flying  too  high  to  note  the  raw  tactless- 
ness of  this;  he  went  right  on: 

"Bill — or  Mr.  Pepperall,  I'd  better  say — I'm 
simply  dead  gone  on  that  girl  of  yours.  She's  the 
sweetest,  smartest,  gracefulest  thing  that  ever  struck 
this  town,  and  when  I—  Well,  I'm  afraid  to  ask 
her  m'self,  but  I  was  thinkin'  if  you  could  arrange 
it." 

"Arrange  what?" 

22  323 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"I  want  to  marry  her.  I  know  I'm  no  kid,  but 
she  could  have  the  big  house,  and  I  can  be  as  foolish 
as  anybody  about  spending  money  when  I've  a  mind 
to.  Prue  could  have  'most  anything  she  wanted  and 
I  could  give  you  a  good  job.  And  then  ever'body 
would  be  happy." 


Papa  did  his  best  to  be  dignified  and  not  turn  a 
handspring  or  shout  for  joy.  He  was  like  a  boy 
trying  to  look  sad  when  he  learns  that  the  school- 
teacher is  ill.  He  managed  to  hold  back  and  tell 
Tawm  Kinch  that  this  was  kind  of  sudden  like  and 
he'd  have  to  talk  to  the  wife  about  it,  and  o'  course 
the  girl  would  have  to  be  considered. 

He  was  good  salesman  enough  not  to  leap  at  the 
first  offer,  and  he  left  Tawm  Kinch  guessing  at  the 
gate  of  the  big  house.  To  Tawm  it  looked  as  lonely 
and  forlorn  as  it  looked  majestic  and  desirable  to 
Papa  Pepperall,  glancing  back  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  sauntered  home  with  difficult  deliberation.  His 
heart  was  singing,  "What  a  place  to  eat  Sunday 
dinners  at!" 

Once  out  of  Tawm  Kinch's  range,  he  broke  into  a 
walk  that  was  almost  a  lope,  and  he  rounded  a 
corner  into  the  portico  that  Judge  Hippisley  carried 
ahead  of  him.  When  the  judge  had  regained  his 
breath  he  seized  papa  by  both  lapels  and  growled: 

"Look  here,  Pepperall,  I  told  you  to  keep  your 
daughter  away  from  my  boy,  and  you  didn't;  and 

324 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

now  Ort  has  lost  his  job.  Beadle  fired  him  to-day. 
And  jobs  ain't  easy  to  get  in  this  town,  as  you  know. 
And  now  what's  going  to  happen?" 

William  Pepperall  was  so  exultant  that  he  tried 
to  say  two  things  at  the  same  time;  that  Orton's 
job  or  loss  of  it  was  entirely  immaterial  and  a  matter 
of  perfect  indifference.  What  he  said  was,  "It's 
material  of  perfect  immaterence  to  me." 

He  spurned  to  correct  himself  and  stalked  on, 
leaving  the  judge  gaping.  A  few  paces  off  William's 
knees  weakened  at  the  thought  of  how  he  had 
jeopardized  Ollie's  position;  but  he  tossed  that  aside 
with  equal  "immaterence,"  for  when  Prue  became 
Mrs.  Kinch  she  could  take  Ollie  to  live  with  her,  or 
send  her  to  school,  or  something. 

When  he  reached  home  he  drew  his  wife  into  the 
parlor  to  break  the  glorious  news  to  her.  She  was 
more  hilarious  than  he  had  been.  All  their  financial 
problems  were  solved  and  their  social  position  en- 
hanced, as  if  the  family  had  suddenly  been  elevated 
to  the  peerage. 

She  was  on  pins  and  needles  of  impatience  because 
Prue  was  late  for  supper.  She  came  down  at  last 
when  the  others  had  heard  all  about  it  and  nearly 
finished  their  food.  She  had  her  hat  on,  and  she  was 
in  such  a  hurry  that  she  paid  no  attention  to  the 
fluttering  of  the  covey,  or  the  prolonged  throat- 
clearing  of  her  father,  who  had  difficulty  in  keeping 
Serina  from  blurting  out  the  end  of  the  story  first. 
At  length  he  said: 

325 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Well,  Prue,  I  guess  the  tango  ain't  as  bad  as  I 
made  out." 

"You  going  to  join  the  class,  poppa?"  said  Prue, 
round  the  spoonful  of  preserved  pears  she  checked 
before  her  mouth. 

Her  father  went  on:  "I  guess  you're  one  of  those 
daughters  of  Shiloh  like  you  said  you  was.  And  the 
son  of  Benjamin  has  come  right  out  after  you.  And 
he's  the  biggest  son  of  a  gun  in  the  whole  tribe." 

Prue  put  down  the  following  spoonful  and  turned 
to  her  mother:  "What  ails  poppa,  momma?  He 
talks  feverish." 

Serina  fairly  gurgled:  "Prepare  yourself  for  the 
grandest  surprise.  You'd  never  guess." 

And  William  had  to  jump  to  beat  her  to  the  news: 
"Tawm  Kinch  wants  to  marry  you." 

"What?" 

"Yep." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"He  asked  me." 

"Asked  you!" 

Serina  clasped  her  hands  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  the  rescued.  "Oh,  Prue,  ain't  it  wonderful? 
Ain't  the  Lord  good  to  us?" 

Prue  did  not  catch  fire  from  the  blaze.  She 
sniffed,  "He  wasn't  very  good  to  Tawm  Kinch." 

William,  bitter  with  disappointment,  snapped: 
"What  do  you  mean?  He's  the  richest  man  in  town. 
Some  folks  say  he's  as  good  as  worth  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars." 

326 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

"Well,  what  of  it?  He'll  never  learn  to  dance. 
His  feet  interfere." 

"What's  dancing  got  to  do  with  it?  You'll  stop 
all  that  foolishness  after  you've  married  Tawm." 

"Oh,  will  I  ?  Ort  Hippisley  can  dance  better  with 
one  foot  than  Tawm  Kinch  could  dance  if  he  was  a 
centipede." 

"Ort  Hippisley!  Humph!  He's  lost  his  job  and 
he'll  never  get  another.  You  couldn't  marry  him." 

"I'm  not  in  any  hurry  to  marry  anybody." 

The  reaction  from  hope  to  confusion,  the  rejection 
of  the  glittering  gift  he  proffered,  infuriated  the  hen- 
pecked, chickpecked  father.  He  shrieked: 

"Well,  you're  going  to  marry  Tawm  Kinch  or 
you're  going  to  get  out  of  my  house!" 

"Papa!"  gasped  Ollie. 

"Here,  dad!"  growled  Horace. 

"William!"  cried  Serina. 

William  thumped  the  table  and  rose  to  his  full 
height.  He  had  not  often  risen  to  it.  And  his  voice 
had  an  unsuspected  timbre: 

"I  mean  it.  I've  been  a  worm  in  this  house  long 
enough.  Here's  where  I  turn.  This  girl  has  made 
me  a  laughing-stock  and  a  despising-stock  long 
enough.  She  can  take  this  grand  opportunity  I  got 
for  her  or  she  can  pack  up  her  duds  and  clear  out — 
for  good!" 

He  thumped  the  table  again  and  sat  down  trem- 
bling with  spent  rage.  Serina  was  so  crushed  under 
the  crumbled  wall  of  her  air-castles  that  she  could 

327 


IN    A    LITTLE    TOWN 

not  protest.  Olive  and  Horace  felt  that  since  Prue 
was  so  indifferent  to  their  happiness  they  need  not 
consider  hers.  There  was  a  long,  long  silence. 

The  sound  of  a  low  whistle  outside  stole  into  the 
silence.  Prue  rose  and  said,  quietly: 

"Ollie,  would  you  mind  packing  my  things  for  me? 
I'll  send  over  for  them  when  I  know  where  I'll  be." 

Ollie  tried  to  answer,  but  her  lips  made  no  sound. 
Prue  kissed  each  of  the  solemn  faces  round  the  table, 
including  her  father's.  They  might  have  been  dead 
in  their  chairs  for  all  their  response.  She  paused 
with  prophetic  loneliness.  That  low  whistle  shrilled 
again. 

She  murmured  a  somber,  "Good-by,  everybody," 
and  went  out. 

The  door  closed  like  a  dull  "Good-by."  They 
heard  her  swift  feet  slowly  crossing  the  porch  and 
descending  the  steps.  They  imagined  them  upon 
the  walk.  They  heard  the  old  gate  squeal  a  rusty, 
"  Good-by-y — Prue-ue !" 

XI 

It  was  Ort  Hippisley,  of  course,  that  waited  for 
Prue  outside  the  gate.  They  swapped  bad  news. 
She  had  heard  that  he  had  lost  his  job,  but  not  that 
his  father  had  forbidden  him  to  speak  to  Prue. 

Her  evil  tidings  that  she  had  been  compelled  to 
choose  between  marrying  Tawm  Kinch  and  banish- 
ment from  home  threw  Ort  into  a  panic  of  dismay. 

328 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

He  was  a  natural-born  dancer,  but  not  a  predestined 
hero.  He  had  no  inspirations  for  crises  like  these. 
He  was  as  graceful  as  a  manly  man  could  be,  but  he 
was  not  at  his  best  when  the  hour  was  darkest.  He 
was  at  his  best  when  the  band  was  playing. 

In  him  Prue  found  somebody  to  support,  not  to 
lean  on.  But  his  distress  at  her  distress  was  so 
complete  that  it  endeared  him  to  her  war-like  soul 
more  than  a  braver  quality  might  have  done.  They 
stood  awhile  thus  in  each  other's  arms  like  a  Pierrot 
and  his  Columbine  with  winter  coming  on.  Finally 
Orton  sighed: 

"What  in  Heaven'<s  name  is  goin'  to  become  of  us? 
What  you  goin'  to  do,  Prue?  Where  can  you  go?" 

Prue's  resolution  asserted  itself.  "The  first  place 
to  go  is  Mrs.  Prosser's  boardin'-house  and  get  me  a 
room.  Then  we  can  go  on  to  the  dance  and  maybe 
that  '11  give  us  an  idea." 

"But  maybe  Mrs.  Prosser  won't  want  you  since 
your  father's  turned  you  out." 

"In  the  first  place  it  was  me  that  turned  me  out. 
In  the  second  place  Mrs.  Prosser  wants  'most  any- 
body that's  got  six  dollars  a  week  comin'  in.  And 
I've  got  that,  provided  I  can  find  a  room  to  teach  in." 

Mrs.  Prosser  welcomed  Prue,  not  without  ques- 
tion, not  without  every  question  she  could  get 
answered,  but  she  made  no  great  bones  of  the  family 
war.  "The  best  o' families  quar'ls,"  she  said.  "And 
half  the  time  they  take  their  meals  with  me  till  they 
quiet  down.  I'll  be  losin'  you  soon." 

329 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Prue  broached  the  question  of  a  room  to  teach  in. 
To  Mrs.  Prosser,  renting  a  room  had  always  the 
joy  of  renting  a  room.  She  said  that  her  "poller" 
was  not  used  much  and  she'd  be  right  glad  to  get 
something  for  it.  She  would  throw  in  the  use  of  the 
pianna.  Prue  touched  the  keys.  It  was  an  old 
boarding-house  piano  and  sounded  like  a  wire  fence 
plucked;  but  almost  anything  would  serve. 

So  Prue  and  Orton  hastened  away  to  the  party, 
and  danced  with  the  final  rapture  of  doing  the  for- 
bidden thing  under  an  overhanging  cloud  of  menace. 
Several  more  pupils  enlisted  themselves  in  Prue's 
classes.  Another  problem  was  solved  and  a  new 
danger  commenced  by  Mr.  Norman  Maugans. 

The  question  of  music  had  become  serious.  It  was 
hard  to  make  progress  when  the  dancers  had  to  hum 
their  own  tunes.  Prue  could  not  buy  a  phonograph, 
and  the  Prosser  piano  dated  from  a  time  when 
pianos  did  not  play  themselves.  Prue  could  "tear 
off  a  few  rags,"  as  she  put  it,  but  she  could  not 
dance  and  teach  and  play  her  own  music  all  at  once. 
Mrs.  Hippisley  was  afraid  to  lend  her  phonograph 
lest  the  judge  should  notice  its  absence. 

And  now  like  a  sent  angel  came  Mr.  Norman 
Maugans,  who  played  the  pipe-organ  at  the  church, 
and  offered  to  exchange  his  services  as  musician  for 
occasional  lessons  and  the  privilege  of  watching  Prue 
dance,  for  which  privilege,  he  said,  "folks  in  New 
York  would  pay  a  hundred  dollars  a  night  if  they 
knew  what  they  was  missinV 

330 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Prue  grabbed  the  bargain,  and  the  next  morning 
began  to  teach  him  to  play  such  things  as  "Some 
Smoke"  and  "Leg  of  Mutton." 

At  first  he  played  "Girls,  Run  Along"  so  that  it 
could  hardly  be  told  from  "Where  Is  My  Wandering 
Boy  To-night?"  and  his  waltzes  were  mostly  hesita- 
tion; but  by  and  by  he  got  so  that  he  fairly  tangoed 
on  the  pedals,  and  he  was  so  funny  bouncing  about 
on  the  piano-stool  to  "Something  Seems  Tingle-ingle- 
ingle-ingling  So  Queer"  that  the  pupils  stopped  danc- 
ing to  watch  him. 

The  tango  was  upon  the  world  like  a  Mississippi 
at  flood-time.  The1  levees  were  going  over  one  by 
one;  or  if  they  stood  fast  they  stood  alone,  for  the 
water  crept  round  from  above  and  backed  up  from 
below. 

In  Carthage,  as  in  both  Portlands,  Maine  and 
Oregon,  and  the  two  Cairos,  Illinois  and  Egypt, 
the  Parises  of  Kentucky  and  France,  the  Yorks  and 
Londons,  old  and  new;  in  Germany,  Italy,  and 
Japan,  fathers,  monarchs,  mayors,  editors  stormed 
against  the  new  dance;  societies  passed  resolutions; 
police  interfered;  ballet-girls  declared  the  dances 
immoral  and  ungraceful.  The  army  of  the  dance 
went  right  on  growing. 

Doctor  Brearley  called  a  meeting  of  the  chief  men 
of  his  congregation  to  talk  things  over  and  discipline, 
if  not  expel,  all  guilty  members.  Deacon  Luxton 
was  in  a  state  of  mind.  He  dared  not  vote  in  favor 
of  the  dance  and  he  dared  not  vote  against  it.  He 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

and  his  wife  were  taking  lessons  from  Prue  sur- 
reptitiously at  their  own  home.  Judge  Hippisley's 
voice  would  have  been  louder  for  war  if  he  had  not 
discovered  that  his  wife  was  secretly  addicted  to  the 
one-step.  Old  Doctor  Brearley  was  walking  about 
rehearsing  a  sermon  against  it  when  he  happened 
to  enter  a  room  where  Idalene  was  practising.  He 
wrung  from  her  a  confession  of  the  depth  of  her 
iniquity.  This  knowledge  paralyzed  his  enthusiasm. 

Sour  old  Deacon  Flugal  was  loudly  in  favor  of 
making  an  example  of  Prue.  His  wife  was  even  more 
violent.  She  happened  to  mention  her  disgust  to 
Mrs.  Deacon  Luxton: 

"I  guess  this  '11  put  an  end  to  the  tango  in  Car- 
thage!" 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  Mrs.  Luxton  cried. 

"You  hope  not!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  It  has  done  my  husband  no  end  of 
good.  It's  taken  pounds  and  pounds  of  fat  off  him. 
It  brings  out  the  prespiration  on  him  something 
wonderful.  And  it's  taken  years  off  his  age.  He's 
that  spry  and  full  of  jokes  and  he's  gettin'  right 
spoony.  He  used  to  be  a  turrible  cut-up,  and  then 
he  settled  down  so  there  was  no  livin'  with  him. 
But  now  he  keeps  at  me  to  buy  some  new  clothes  and 
he's  thinkin'  of  gettin'  a  tuxeda.  His  old  disp'sition 
seems  to  have  come  back  and  he's  as  cheerful  and, 
oh,  so  affectionate!  It's  like  a  second  honeymoon." 

Mrs.  Luxton  gazed  off  into  space  with  rapture. 
Mrs.  Flugal  was  so  silent  that  Mrs.  Luxton  turned 

332 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

to  see  if  she  had  walked  away  in  disgust.  But  there 
was  in  her  eyes  that  light  that  lies  in  woman's  eyes, 
and  she  turned  a  delicious  tomato-red  as  she  mur- 
mured : 

"How  much,   do  you   s'pose,  would  a  term  of 
lessons  cost  for  my  husband?" 


XII 

Somehow  the  church  failed  to  take  official  action. 
There  was  loud  criticism  still,  but  phonographs  that 
had  hitherto  been  sclent  or  at  least  circumspect  were 
heard  to  blare  forth  dance  rhythms,  and  not  always 
with  the  soft  needle  on. 

Mrs.  Prosser's  boarders  were  mainly  past  the  age 
when  they  were  liable  to  temptation.  At  first  the 
presence  and  activities  of  Prue  had  added  a  tang 
of  much-needed  spice  to  this  desert-island  existence. 
They  loved  to  stare  through  the  door  or  even  to  sit  in 
at  the  lessons.  But  at  the  first  blast  of  the  storm 
that  the  church  had  set  up  they  scurried  about 
in  consternation.  Mrs.  Prosser  was  informed  that 
her  boarding-house  was  no  longer  a  fit  place  for 
church-fearing  ladies.  She  was  warned  to  expurgate 
Prue  or  lose  the  others.  Mrs.  Prosser  regretfully 
banished  the  girl. 

And  now  Prue  felt  like  the  locust  turned  away 
from  ant-hill  after  ant-hill.  She  walked  the  streets 
disconsolately.  Her  feet  from  old  habit  led  her  past 
her  father's  door.  She  paused  to  gaze  at  the  dear 

333 


IN   A   LITTLE    TOWN 

front  walk  and  the  beloved  frayed  steps,  the  darling 
need  of  paint,  the  time-gnawed  porch  furniture,  the 
empty  hammock  hooks.  She  sighed  and  would  have 
trudged  on,  but  her  mother  saw  her  and  called  to 
her  from  the  sewing-room  window,  and  ran  out 
bareheaded  in  her  old  wrapper. 

They  embraced  across  the  gate  and  Serina  carried 
on  so  that  Prue  had  to  go  in  with  her  to  keep  the 
neighbors  from  having  too  good  a  time.  Prue  told 
her  story,  and  Serina's  jaw  set  in  the  kind  of  tetanus 
that  mothers  are  liable  to.  She  sent  Horace  to  fetch 
Prue's  baggage  from  "old  Prosser's,"  and  she  re- 
established Prue  in  her  former  room. 

When  William  came  slumping  up  the  steps,  still 
jobless,  he  found  the  doors  locked,  front  and  back, 
and  the  porch  windows  fastened.  Serina  from  an 
upper  sill  informed  him  that  Prue  was  back,  and  he 
could  either  accept  her  or  go  somewhere  else  to  live. 

William  yielded,  salving  his  conscience  by  refusing 
to  speak  to  the  girl.  Prue  settled  down  with  the 
meekness  of  returned  prodigals  for  whom  fatted 
calves  are  killed.  According  to  the  old  college  song, 
"The  Prod.,"  when  he  got  back,  "sued  father  and 
brother  for  time  while  away."  That  was  the  sort 
of  prodigal  Prue  was.  Prue  brought  her  classes  with 
her. 

Papa  Pepperall  gave  up  the  battle.  He  dared  not 
lock  his  daughter  in  or  out  or  up.  He  must  not  beat 
her  or  strangle  her  with  a  bowstring  or  drop  her 
into  the  Bosporus.  He  could  not  sell  her  down  the 

334 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

river.  A  modern  father  has  about  as  much  authority 
as  a  chained  watch-dog.  He  can  jump  about  and 
bark  and  snap,  but  he  only  abrades  his  own  throat. 

There  were  Pepperall  feuds  all  over  town.  One 
by  one  the  most  conservative  were  recruited  or 
silenced. 

William  Pepperall,  however,  still  fumed  at  home 
and  abroad,  and  Judge  Hippisley  would  have  au- 
thorized raids  if  there  had  been  any  places  to  raid. 
Thus  far  the  orgies  had  been  confined  to  private 
walls.  There  was,  indeed,  no  place  in  Carthage 
for  public  dancing  except  the  big  room  in  the  West- 
cott  Block  over  Jake  Meyer's  restaurant,  and  that 
room  was  rented  to  various  secret  societies  on  various 
nights. 

Prue's  class  outgrew  the  parlor,  spread  to  the 
dining-room,  and  trickled  into  the  kitchen.  Here 
the  growth  had  to  stop,  till  it  was  learned  that  if 
Mr.  Maugans  played  very  loud  he  could  be  heard 
in  the  bedrooms  up-stairs.  And  there  a  sort  of 
University  Extension  was  practised  for  ladies  only. 

And  still  the  demand  for  education  increased. 
The  benighted  held  out  hands  pleading  for  help. 
Young  men  and  old  offered  fabulous  sums,  a  dollar 
a  lesson,  two  dollars!  Prue  decided  that  if  her 
mother  would  stay  up-stairs  as  a  chaperon  it  would 
be  proper  to  let  the  men  dance  there,  too. 

"But  how  am  I  going  to  cook  the  meals?"  said 
mamma. 

"We'll  hire  a  cook,"  said  Prue.  And  it  was  done. 
335 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

She  even  bought  mamma  a  new  dress,  and  established 
her  above-stairs  as  a  sort  of  grand  duenna. 

Mamma  watched  Prue  with  such  keenness  that 
now  and  then,  when  Prue  had  to  rush  down-stairs, 
mamma  would  sometimes  solve  a  problem  for  one  of 
Prue's  "scholars,"  as  she  called  them. 

One  day  papa  came  home  to  his  pandemonium, 
jostled  through  the  couple-cluttered  hall,  stamped 
up-stairs,  and  found  mamma  showing  Deacon  Flugal 
how  to  do  the  drop-step. 

"You  trot  four  short  steps  backward,"  mamma 
was  saying,  "then  you  make  a  little  dip;  but  don't 
swing  your  shoulders.  Prue  says  if  you  want  to 
dance  refined  you  mustn't  swing  your  shoulders  or 
your — your — the  rest  of  you." 

Papa  was  ready  to  swing  his  shoulders  and  drop 
the  deacon  through  the  window,  but  as  he  was  about 
to  protest  the  deacon  caught  mamma  in  his  arms 
and  swept  backward,  dropping  his  fourth  step  in- 
cisively on  papa's  instep,  rendering  papa  hors  de 
combat. 

By  the  time  William  had  rubbed  witch-hazel  into 
the  deacon's  heel-mark,  the  deacon  in  a  glorious 
"prespiration"  had  gone  home  with  his  own  breath- 
less wife  ditto.  William  dragged  Serina  into  the 
bathroom,  the  only  room  where  dancing  was  not  in 
progress.  He  warned  her  not  to  forget  that  she  had 
sworn  to  be  a  faithful  wife.  She  pooh-poohed  him 
and  said: 

"You'd  better  learn  to  dance  yourself.  Come  on, 
336 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

I'll  show  you  the  Jedia  Luna.  It's  very  easy  and 
awful  refined.  Do  just  like  I  do." 

She  put  her  hands  on  her  hips  and  began  to  sidle. 
She  had  him  nearly  sidled  into  the  bathtub  before 
he  could  escape  with  the  cry  of  a  hunted  animal. 
At  supper  he  thumped  the  table  with  another  of  his 
resolutions,  and  cried: 

"My  house  was  not  built  for  a  dance-hall!" 

"That's  right,  poppa,"  said  Prue;  "and  it  shakes 
so  I'm  afraid  it  '11  come  down  on  us.  I've  been 
thinking  that  you'll  have  to  hire  me  the  lodge-room 
in  the  Westcott  Block.  I  can  give  classes  there  all 
day." 

He  refused  flatly.  So  she  persuaded  Deacon 
Flugal  and  several  gentlemen  who  were  on  the 
waiting-list  of  her  pupils  to  arrange  it  for  her. 

And  now  all  day  long  she  taught  in  the  Westcott 
Block.  The  noise  of  her  music  interfered  with  busi- 
ness— with  lawyers  and  dentists  and  insurance 
agents.  At  first  they  were  hostile,  then  they  were 
hypnotized.  Lawyer  and  client  would  drop  a  title 
discussion  to  quarrel  over  a  step.  The  dentist's 
forceps  would  dance  along  the  teeth,  and  many  an 
uncomplaining  bicuspid  was  wrenched  from  its  happy 
home,  many  an  uneasy  molar  assumed  a  crown.  The 
money  Prue  made  would  have  been  scandalous  if 
money  did  not  tend  to  become  self-sterilizing  after 
it  passes  certain  dimensions. 

By  and  by  the  various  lodge  members  found  their 
meetings  and  their  secret  rites  to  be  so  stupid,  com- 

337 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

pared  with  the  new  dances,  that  almost  nobody  came. 
Quorums  were  rare.  Important  members  began  to 
resign.  Everybody  wanted  to  be  Past  Grand  Master 
of  the  Tango. 

The  next  step  was  the  gradual  postponement  of 
meetings  to  permit  of  a  little  informal  dancing  in  the 
evening.  The  lodges  invited  their  ladies  to  enter 
the  precincts  and  revel.  Gradually  the  room  was 
given  over  night  and  day  to  the  worship  of  Saint 
Vitus. 

XIII 

The  solution  of  every  human  problem  always  opens 
another.  People  danced  themselves  into  enormities 
of  appetite  and  thirst.  It  was  not  that  food  was 
attractive  in  itself.  Far  from  it.  It  was  an  inter- 
ruption, a  distraction  from  the  tango;  a  base  streak 
of  materialism  in  the  bacon  of  ecstasy.  But  it  was 
necessary  in  order  that  strength  might  be  kept  up  for 
further  dancing. 

Deacon  Flugal  put  it  happily:  "Eating  is  just  like 
stoking.  When  I'm  giving  a  party  at  our  house  I 
hate  to  have  to  leave  the  company  and  go  down 
cellar  and  throw  coal  in  the  furnace.  But  it's  got  to 
be  did  or  the  party's  gotter  stop." 

Carthage  had  one  good  hotel  and  two  bad  ones, 
but  all  three  were  "down  near  the  deepo."  Almost 
the  only  other  place  to  eat  away  from  home  was 
"Jake  Meyer's  Place,"  an  odious  restaurant  where 
the  food  was  ill  chosen  and  ill  cooked,  and  served  in 

338 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

china  of  primeval  shapes  as  if  stone  had  been  slightly 
hollowed  out. 

Prue  was  complaining  that  there  was  no  place  in 
Carthage  where  people  could  dance  with  their  meals 
and  give  "teas  donsons."  Horace  was  smitten  with 
a  tremendous  idea. 

"Why  not  persuade  Jake  Meyer  to  clear  a  space  in 
his  rest'runt  like  they  do  in  Chicawgo?" 

Prue  was  enraptured,  and  Horace  was  despatched 
to  Jake  with  the  proffer  of  a  magnificent  opportunity. 
Horace  cannily  tried  to  extract  from  Jake  the  promise 
of  a  commission  before  he  told  him.  Jake  promised. 
Then  Horace  sprang'his  invention. 

Now  Jake  was  even  more  bitter  against  the  tango 
than  Doctor  Brearley,  Judge  Hippisley,  or  Mr. 
Pepperall.  The  bar  annex  to  his  restaurant,  or 
rather  the  bar  to  which  his  restaurant  was  annexed, 
had  been  almost  deserted  of  evenings  since  the  vicious 
dance  mania  raged.  The  bowling-alley  where  the 
thirst-producing  dust  was  wont  to  arise  in  clouds  was 
mute.  Over  his  head  he  heard  the  eternal  Maugans 
and  the  myriad-hoofed  shuffle  of  the  unceasing  dance. 
When  he  understood  what  Horace  proposed  he 
emitted  the  roar  of  an  old  uhlan,  and  the  only  com- 
mission he  offered  Horace  was  the  commission  of 
murder  upon  his  person. 

Horace   retreated    in    disorder   and    reported    to 

Prue.     Prue  called  upon  Jake  herself,  smilingly  told 

him  that  all  he  needed  to  do  was  to  crowd  his  tables 

together  round  a  clear  space,  revolutionize  his  menu, 

23  339 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

get  a  cook  who  would  cook,  and  spend  about  five 
hundred  dollars  on  decorations. 

"  Five  hundret  thalers!"  Jake  howled.  "I  sell  you 
de  whole  shop  for  five  hundret  thalers." 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  said  Prue  as  she  walked  out. 

She  could  think  over  all  of  it  except  the  five  hun- 
dred dollars.  She  had  never  thought  that  high. 
She  told  Horace,  and  he  said  that  the  way  to  finance 
anything  was  to  borrow  the  money  from  the  bank. 

Prue  called  on  Clarence  Dolge,  the  bank  president 
she  knew  best.  He  asked  her  a  number  of  personal 
questions  about  her  earnings.  He  was  surprised  at 
their  amount  and  horrified  that  she  had  saved  none 
of  them.  He  advised  her  to  start  an  account  with 
him;  but  she  reminded  him  that  she  had  not  come 
to  put  in,  but  to  take  out. 

He  said  that  he  would  cheerfully  lend  her  the 
money  if  she  could  get  a  proper  indorsement  on  her 
note.  She  knew  that  her  father  did  not  indorse 
her  dancing,  but  perhaps  he  might  feel  differently 
about  her  note. 

"I  might  get  poppa  to  sign  his  name,"  she  smiled. 

Mr.  Dolge  exclaimed,  "No,  thank  you!"  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  He  already  had  a  sheaf  of 
papa's  autographs,  all  duly  protested. 

She  went  to  another  bank,  whose  president  an- 
nounced that  he  would  have  to  put  the  very  unusual 
proposal  before  the  directors.  Judge  Hippisley  was 
most  of  the  directors.  The  president  did  not  report 
exactly  what  the  directors  said,  for  Prue,  after 

340 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

all,  was  a  woman.  But  she  did  not  get  the  five 
hundred. 

Prue  had  set  her  heart  on  providing  Carthage  with 
a  cafe  dansant.  She  determined  to  save  her  money. 
Prue  saving! 

It  was  hard,  too,  for  shoes  gave  out  quickly  and  she 
could  not  wear  the  same  frock  all  the  time.  And  some- 
times at  night  she  was  so  tired  she  just  could  not  walk 
home  and  she  rode  home  in  a  hack.  A  number  of 
young  men  offered  to  buggy-ride  her  home  or  to  take 
her  in  their  little  automobiles.  But  they,  too,  seemed 
to  confuse  art  and  business  with  foolishness. 

Sometimes  she  would  ask  Ort  to  ride  home  with 
her,  but  she  wouldn't  let  him  pay  for  the  hack. 
Indeed  he  could  not  if  he  would  His  devotion  to 
Prue's  school  had  cost  him  his  job,  and  the  judge 
would  not  give  him  a  penny. 

Sometimes  in  the  hack  Prue  would  permit  Ort 
to  keep  his  arm  round  her.  Sometimes  when  he  was 
very  doleful  she  would  have  to  ask  him  to  put  it 
round  her.  But  it  was  all  right,  because  they  were 
going  to  get  married  when  Orton  learned  how  to  earn 
some  money.  He  was  afraid  he  would  have  to  leave 
Carthage.  But  how  could  he  tear  himself  from 
Prue  ?  She  would  not  let  him  talk  about  it. 


XIV 

Now  the  fame  of  Prue  and  her  prancing  was  not 
long  pent  up  in  Carthage.     Visitors  from  other  towns 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

saw  her  work  and  carried  her  praises  home.  Some- 
times farmers,  driving  into  town,  would  hear  Mr. 
Maugans's  music  through  the  open  windows.  Their 
daughters  would  climb  the  stairs  and  peer  in  and 
lose  their  taste  for  the  old  dances,  and  wistfully 
entreat  Prue  to  learn  them  them  newfangled  steps. 

In  the  towns  smaller  than  Carthage  the  anxiety 
for  the  tango  fermented.  A  class  was  formed  in 
Oscawanna,  and  Prue  was  bribed  to  come  over  twice 
a  week  and  help. 

Clint  Sprague,  the  manager  of  the  Carthage  Opera 
House,  which  was  now  chiefly  devoted  to  moving 
pictures,  with  occasional  interpolations  of  vaudeville, 
came  home  from  Chicago  with  stories  of  the  enormous 
moneys  obtained  by  certain  tango  teams.  He  pro- 
posed to  book  Prue  in  a  chain  of  small  theaters  round 
about,  if  she  could  get  a  dancing  partner.  She 
said  she  had  one. 

Sprague  wrote  glowing  letters  to  neighboring 
theater-managers,  but,  being  theater-managers,  they 
were  unable  to  know  what  their  publics  wanted. 
They  declined  to  take  any  risks,  but  offered  Sprague 
their  houses  at  the  regular  rental,  leaving  him  any 
profits  that  might  result. 

Clint  glumly  admitted  that  it  wouldn't  cost  much 
to  try  it  out  in  Oscawanna.  He  would  guarantee  the 
rental  and  pay  for  the  show-cards  and  the  dodgers; 
Prue  would  pay  the  fare  and  hotel  bills  of  herself, 
her  partner,  and  Mr.  Maugans. 

Prue  hesitated.  It  was  an  expense  and  a  risk. 
342 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Prue  cautious!  She  would  take  nobody  for  partner 
but  Orton  Hippisley.  Perhaps  he  could  borrow  the 
money  from  his  father.  She  told  him  about  it,  and 
he  was  wild  with  enthusiasm.  He  loved  to  dance 
with  Prue.  To  invest  money  in  enlarging  her  fame 
would  be  divine. 

He  saw  the  judge.     Then  he  heard  him. 

He  came  back  to  Prue  and  told  her  in  as  delicate 
a  translation  as  he  could  manage  that  it  was  all  off. 
The  judge  had  bellowed  at  him  that  not  only  would 
he  not  finance  his  outrageous  escapade  with  that 
shameless  Pepperall  baggage,  but  if  the  boy  dared  to 
undertake  it  he  would  disown  him. 

"Now  you'll  have  to  go,"  said  Prue,  grimly. 

"But  I  have  no  money,  honey,"  he  protested, 
miserably. 

"I'll  pay  your  expenses  and  give  you  half  what  I 
get,"  she  said. 

He  refused  flatly  to  share  in  the  profits.  His 
poverty  consented  to  accept  the  railroad  fare  and  food 
enough  to  dance  on.  And  he  would  pay  that  back 
the  first  job  he  got. 

Then  Prue  went  to  Clint  Sprague  and  offered  to 
pay  the  bills  if  he  would  give  her  three-fourths  of 
the  profits.  He  fumed;  but  she  drove  a  good  bar- 
gain. Prue  driving  bargains!  At  last  he  consented, 
growling. 

When  Prue  announced  the  make-up  of  her  troupe 
there  was  a  cyclone  in  her  own  home.  Papa  was  as 
loud  as  the  judge. 

343 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"You  goin'  gallivantin'  round  the  country  with 
that  Maugans  idiot  and  that  young  Hippisley  scoun- 
drel? Well,  I  guess  not!  You've  disgraced  us 
enough  in  our  own  town,  without  spreading  the  poor 
but  honorable  name  of  Pepperall  all  over  Oscawanna 
and  Perkinsville  and  Athens  and  Thebes." 

The  worn-out,  typewritten-out  Ollie  pleaded 
against  Prue's  lawlessness.  It  would  be  sure  to  cost 
her  her  place  in  the  judge's  office.  It  was  bad 
enough  now. 

Even  Serina,  who  had  become  a  mere  echo  of 
Prue,  herself  went  so  far  as  to  say,  "Really,  Prue, 
you  know!" 

Prue  thought  awhile  and  said:  "I'll  fix  that  all 
right.  Don't  you  worry.  There'll  be  no  scandal. 
I'll  marry  the  boy." 

xv 

And  she  did!  Took  ten  dollars  from  the  hiding- 
place  where  she  banked  her  wealth,  and  took  the 
boy  to  an  Oscawanna  preacher,  and  telegraphed 
home  that  he  was  hers  and  she  his  and  both  each 
other's. 

The  news  spread  like  oil  ablaze  on  water.  Mrs. 
Hippisley  had  consented  to  take  lessons  of  Prue, 
but  she  had  never  dreamed  of  losing  her  eldest  son 
to  her.  She  and  Serina  had  quite  a  "run-in"  on  the 
telephone.  William  and  the  judge  almost  had  a 
fight-out — and  right  on  Main  Street,  too. 

344 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Each  accused  the  other  of  fathering  a  child  that 
had  decoyed  away  and  ruined  the  life  of  the  other 
child.  Both  were  so  scorched  with  helpless  wrath 
that  each  went  home  to  his  bed  and  threatened  to 
bite  any  hand  that  was  held  out  in  comfort.  Judge 
Hippisley  had  just  strength  enough  to  send  word  to 
poor  Olive  that  she  was  fired. 

XVI 

The  next  news  came  the  next  day.  Oscawanna 
had  been  famished  for  a  sight  of  the  world-sweeping 
dances.  It  turnefl  out  in  multitudes  to  see  the 
famous  Carthage  queen  in  the  new  steps.  The 
opera-house  there  had  not  held  such  a  crowd  since 
William  J.  Bryan  spoke  there — the  time  he  did  not 
charge  admission.  According  to  the  Oscawanna 
Eagle:  "This  enterprising  city  paid  one  thousand 
dollars  to  see  Peerless  Prue  Pepperall  dance  with  her 
partner  Otto  Hipkinson.  What  you  got  to  say 
about  that,  ye  scribes  of  Carthage?" 

Like  the  corpse  in  Ben  King's  poem,  Judge  Hip- 
pisley sat  up  at  the  news  and  said:  "What's  that?" 
And  when  the  figures  were  repeated  he  "dropped 
dead  again." 

The  next  day  word  was  received  that  Perkinsville, 
jealous  of  Oscawanna,  had  shoveled  twelve  hundred 
dollars  into  the  drug-store  where  tickets  were  sold. 
Two  sick  people  had  nearly  died  because  they 
couldn't  get  their  prescriptions  filled  for  twelve  hours, 

345 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

and  the  mayor  of  the  town  had  had  to  go  behind  the 
counter  and  pick  out  his  own  stomach  bitters. 

The  Athens  theater  had  been  sold  out  so  quickly 
that  the  town  hall  was  engaged  for  a  special  matinee. 
Athens  paid  about  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  The 
Athenians  had  never  suspected  that  there  was  so 
much  money  in  town.  People  who  had  not  paid 
a  bill  for  months  managed  to  dig  up  cash  for 
tickets. 

Indignant  Oscawanna  wired  for  a  return  engage- 
ment, so  that  those  who  had  been  crowded  out 
could  see  the  epoch-making  dances.  Those  who 
had  seen  them  wanted  to  see  them  again.  In  the 
mornings  Prue  gave  lessons  to  select  classes  at  auc- 
tion prices. 

Wonderful  as  this  was,  unbelievable,  indeed,  to 
Carthage,  it  was  not  surprising.  This  blue  and 
lonely  dispeptic  world  has  always  been  ready  to  en- 
rich the  lucky  being  that  can  tempt  its  palate  with 
something  it  wants  and  didn't  know  it  wanted. 
Other  people  were  leaping  from  poverty  to  wealth 
all  over  the  world  for  teaching  the  world  to  dance 
again.  Prue  caught  the  crest  of  the  wave  that  over- 
swept  a  neglected  region. 

The  influence  of  her  success  on  her  people  and  her 
neighbors  was  bound  to  be  overwhelming.  The 
judge  modulated  from  a  contemptuous  allusion  to 
"that  Pepperall  cat"  to  "my  daughter-in-law." 
Prue's  father,  who  had  never  watched  her  dance,  had 
refused  to  collaborate  even  that  far  in  her  ruination, 

346 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

could  not  continue  to  believe  that  she  was  entirely 
lost  when  she  was  so  conspicuously  found. 

Perhaps  he  was  right.  Perhaps  the  world  is  so 
wholesome  and  so  well  balanced  that  nobody  ever 
attained  enormous  prosperity  without  some  excuse 
for  it.  People  who  contribute  the  beauty,  laughter, 
thrills,  and  rhythm  to  the  world  may  do  as  much  to 
make  life  livable  as  people  who  invent  electric  lights 
and  telephones  and  automobiles.  Why  should  they 
not  be  paid  handsomely? 

Prue,  the  impossible,  unimaginable  Prue,  tri- 
umphed home  safely  with  several  thousands  of  dol- 
lars in  her  satchel.  Orton  bought  a  revolver  to 
guard  it  with,  and  nearly  shot  one  of  his  priceless  feet 
off  with  it.  They  dumped  the  money  upon  the  shelf 
of  the  banker  who  had  refused  to  lend  Prue  five  hun- 
dred dollars.  He  had  to  raise  the  steel  grating  to  get 
the  bundle  in.  The  receiving  teller  almost  fainted 
and  had  to  count  it  twice. 

Clint  Sprague  alone  was  disconsolate.  He  had 
refused  to  risk  Prue's  expenses,  had  forced  her  to 
take  the  lioness's  share  of  the  actual  costs  and  the 
imaginary  profits.  He  almost  wept  over  what  he 
might  have  had,  despising  what  he  had. 

Prue  ought  to  have  been  a  wreck;  but  there  is  no 
stimulant  like  success.  In  a  boat-race  the  winning 
crew  never  collapses.  Prue's  mother  begged  her  to 
rest;  her  doctor  warned  her  that  she  would  drop 
dead.  But  she  smiled,  "If  I  can  die  dancing  it 
won't  be  so  bad." 

347 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Even  more  maddeningly  joyful  than  the  dancing 
now  was  the  rhapsody  of  income.  To  be  both 
Salome  and  Hetty  Green!  Mr.  Dolge  figured  out 
her  income.  At  any  reasonable  rate  of  interest  it 
represented  a  capital  far  bigger  than  Tawm  Kinch's 
mythical  hundred  thousand.  Mr.  Dolge  said  to 
William  Pepperall: 

"Bill,  your  daughter  is  the  richest  man  in  town. 
Any  time  you  want  to  borrow  a  little  money,  get 
her  name  on  your  note  and  I'll  be  glad  to  let  you  have 
it." 

Somehow  his  little  pleasantry  brought  no  smile  to 
William's  face.  He  snapped: 

"You  mind  your  own  business  and  I'll  mind 
mine." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  don't  have  to  borrow  it," 
Dolge  purred;  "she  just  gives  it  to  you." 

William  almost  wept  at  this  humiliation. 

Prue  bought  out  Jake  Meyer's  restaurant.  She 
spent  a  thousand  dollars  on  its  decoration.  She 
consoled  Ollie  with  a  position  as  her  secretary  at 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week  and  bought  her  some  new 
dresses. 

Her  mother  scolded  poor  Ollie  for  being  such  a 
stick  as  not  to  be  able  to  dance  like  her  sister  and 
having  to  be  dependent  on  her.  There  was  some- 
thing hideously  immoral  and  disconcerting  about  this 
success.  But  then  there  always  is.  Prue  was 
whisked  from  the  ranks  of  the  resentful  poor  to  those 
of  the  predatory  rich. 

348 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

Prue  established  Horace  as  cashier  of  the  restau- 
rant. She  wanted  to  make  her  father  manager,  but 
he  could  not  bend  his  pride  to  the  yoke  of  taking 
wages  from  his  child.  If  she  had  come  home  in  dis- 
grace and  repentance  he  could  have  been  a  father 
to  her. 

The  blossoming  of  what  had  been  Jake  Meyer's 
place  into  what  Carthage  called  the  "Palais  de 
Pepperall"  was  a  festival  indeed.  The  newspapers, 
in  which  at  Horace's  suggestion  Prue  advertised 
lavishly,  gave  the  event  head-lines  on  the  front  page. 
The  article  included  a  complete  catalogue  of  those 
present.  This  roster  of  forty  "Mesdames"  was 
thereafter  accepted  as  the  authorized  beadroll  of 
the  Carthage  Four  Hundred.  Mrs.  Hippisley  was 
present  and  as  proud  as  Judy.  But  the  judge  and 
William  Pepperall  were  absent,  and  Prue  felt  an 
ache  in  a  heart  that  should  have  been  so  full  of  pride. 
She  and  Orton  rode  home  in  a  hack  and  she  cried  all 
the  way.  In  fact,  he  had  to  stick  his  head  out  and 
tell  the  driver  to  drive  round  awhile  until  she  was 
calm  enough  to  go  home. 

A  few  days  later,  as  Prue  was  hurrying  along  the 
street  looking  over  a  list  of  things  she  had  to  pur- 
chase for  her  restaurant,  she  encountered  old  Doctor 
Brearley,  who  was  looking  over  a  list  of  subscribers 
to  the  fund  for  paying  the  overdue  interest  on  the 
mortgage  on  the  new  steeple.  He  was  afraid  the 
builders  might  take  it  down. 

In  trying  to  pass  each  other  Prue  and  the  preacher 
349 


IN  A   LITTLE   TOWN 

fell  into  an  involuntary  tango  step  that  delighted  the 
witnesses.  When  Doctor  Brearley  had  recovered  his 
composure,  and  before  he  had  adjusted  his  spec- 
tacles, he  thought  that  Prue  was  Bertha  Appleby, 
and  he  said: 

"Ah,  my  dear  child,  I  was  just  going  to  call  on 
you  and  see  if  you  couldn't  contribute  a  little  to 
help  us  out  in  this  very  worthy  cause." 

Prue  let  him  explain,  and  then  she  said: 

"Tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Doctor:  I'll  give  you  the 
entire  proceeds  of  my  restaurant  for  one  evening. 
And  I'll  dance  for  you  with  my  husband." 

Doctor  Brearley  was  aghast  when  he  realized  the 
situation.  He  was  afraid  to  accept;  afraid  to  refuse. 
He  was  in  an  excruciating  dilemma.  Prue  had  mercy 
on  him.  She  said: 

"I'll  just  announce  it  as  an  idea  of  my  own.  You 
needn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it." 

The  townspeople  were  set  in  a  turmoil  over  Prue's 
latest  audacity.  Half  the  church  members  declared 
it  an  outrage;  the  other  half  decided  that  it  gave 
them  an  opportunity  to  see  her  dance  under  safe 
auspices.  Foxy  Prue! 

XVII 

The  restaurant  was  crowded  with  unfamiliar 
faces,  terrified  at  what  they  were  to  witness.  Doctor 
Brearley  had  not  known  what  to  do.  It  seemed  so 
mean  to  stay  away  and  so  perilous  to  go.  His 

350 


DAUGHTERS   OF    SHILOH 

daughter  solved  the  problem  by  telling  him  that 
she  would  say  she  had  made  him  come.  He 
went  so  far  as  to  let  her  drag  him  in.  "But 
just  for  a  moment,"  he  explained.  "He  really 
must  leave  immediately  after  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hip- 
pisley's — er — exercises."  He  apparently  apologized 
to  the  other  guests,  but  really  to  an  outraged 
heaven. 

He  trembled  with  anxiety  on  the  edge  of  his  chair. 
The  savagery  of  the  music  alarmed  him.  When 
Prue  walked  out  with  her  husband  the  old  Doctor 
was  distressed  by  her  beauty.  Then  they  danced  and 
his  heart  thumped;  but  subtly  it  was  persuaded  to 
thump  in  the  measure  of  that  unholy  Maxixe.  He 
did  not  know  that  outside  in  the  street  before  the 
two  windows  stood  two  exiled  fathers  watching  in 
bitter  loneliness. 

He  saw  a  little  love  drama  displayed,  and  re- 
minded himself  that,  after  all,  some  critics  said  that 
the  Song  of  Solomon  was  a  kind  of  wedding  drama 
or  dance.  After  all,  Mrs.  Hippisley  was  squired  by 
her  perfectly  proper  and  very  earnest  young  hus- 
band— though  Orton  in  his  black  clothes  was  hardly 
more  than  her  shifting  shadow. 

The  old  preacher  had  been  studying  his  Cruden, 
and  bolstering  himself  up,  too,  with  the  very  Script- 
ural texts  that  Prue  had  written  out  for  her  stiff- 
necked  father.  He  had  met  other  texts  that  she  had 
not  known  how  to  find.  The  idea  came  to  the 
preacher  that,  in  a  sense,  since  God  made  everything 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  must  have  made  the  dance,  breathed  its  im- 
pulse into  the  clay. 

This  daughter  of  Shiloh  was  an  extraordinarily 
successful  piece  of  workmanship.  There  was  nothing 
very  wicked  surely  about  that  coquettish  bending  of 
her  head,  those  playful  escapes  from  her  husband's 
embrace,  that  heel-and-toe  tripping,  that  lithe 
elusiveness,  that  joyous  psalmody  of  youth. 

Prue  was  so  pretty  and  her  ways  so  pretty  that  the 
old  man  felt  the  pathos  of  beauty,  so  fleet,  so  fleeting, 
so  lyrical,  so  full  of —  Alas!  The  tears  were  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  almost  applauded  with  the  others  when 
the  dance  was  finished.  He  bowed  vaguely  in  the 
direction  of  the  anxious  Prue  and  made  his  way  out. 
She  felt  rebuked  and  condemned  and  would  not  be 
comforted  by  the  praise  of  others.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  old  preacher  had  encountered  on  the  side- 
walk Judge  Hippisley.  Doctor  Brearley  had  for- 
gotten that  the  judge  had  not  yet  ordered  his  own 
decision  reversed,  and  he  thought  he  was  saying  the 
unavoidable  thing  when  he  murmured: 

"Ah,  Judge,  how  proud  you  must  be  of  your  dear 
son's  dear  wife.  I  fancy  that  Miriam,  the  prophetess, 
must  have  danced  something  like  that  on  the  banks  of 
the  Red  Sea  when  the  Egyptians  were  overthrown." 

Then  he  put  up  the  umbrella  he  always  carried 
and  stumbled  back  to  his  parsonage  under  the  star- 
light. His  heart  was  dancing  a  trifle,  and  he  escaped 
the  scene  of  wrath  that  broke  out  as  soon  as  he  was 
away. 

352 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

For  William  Pepperall  had  a  lump  in  his  throat 
made  up  of  equal  parts  of  desire  to  cry  and  desire 
to  fight,  and  he  said  to  Judge  Hippisley  with  all 
truculence: 

"Look  here,  Judge!  I  understand  you  been 
jawin'  round  this  town  about  my  daughter  not  being 
all  she'd  ought  to  be.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  put  a  stop 
to  that  jaw  of  yours  if  I  have  to  slam  it  right  through 
the  top  of  your  head.  If  you  want  to  send  me  to 
jail  for  contemp'  of  court,  sentence  me  for  life,  be- 
cause that's  the  way  I  feel  about  you,  you  fat  old — " 

Judge  Hippisley  put  up  wide-open  hands  and 
protested: 

"Why,  Bill,  I — I  just  been  wonderin'  how  I  could 
get  your  daughter  to  make  up  with  me.  I  been 
afraid  to  ask  her  for  fear  she'd  just  think  I  was 
toadyin'  to  her.  I  think  she's  the  finest  girl  ever 
came  out  of  Carthage.  Do  you  suppose  she'd  make 
up  and — and  come  over  to  our  house  to  dinner 
Sunday?" 

"Let's  ask  her,"  said  William,  and  they  walked 
in  at  the  door. 

XVIII 

Early  one  morning  about  six  months  from  the 
first  dismal  Monday  morning  after  William  Pepper- 
all's  last  bankruptcy,  Serina  wakened  to  find  that 
William  was  already  up.  She  had  been  oversleeping 
with  that  luxury  which  a  woman  can  experience 
only  in  an  expensive  and  frilly  nightie  combined 

353 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

with  hemstitched  linen  sheets.  She  opened  her 
heavy  and  slumber-contented  eyes  to  behold  her 
husband  in  a  suit  of  partly-silk  pajamas.  He  was 
making  strange  motions  with  his  feet.  "What  on 
earth  you  doing  there?"  she  yawned,  and  William 
grinned. 

"Yestiddy  afternoon  the  judge  was  showin'  me 
a  new  step  in  this  Max  Hicks  dance.  It's  right  cute. 
Goes  like  this." 

Mamma  Pepperall  watched  him  cavort  a  moment, 
then  sniffed  contemptuously,  and  rolled  out  like  a 
fireman  summoned. 

"Not  a  bit  like  it!    It  goes  like  this." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened  and  Ollie 
put  her  head  in. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  be  quiet!  You'll  wake  Prue, 
and  she's  all  wore  out;  and  she's  only  got  an  hour 
more  before  they  have  to  get  up  and  take  the  train 
for  Des  Moines." 

The  old  rascals  promised  to  be  good,  but  as  soon 
as  she  had  gone  they  wrangled  in  whispers  and 
danced  on  tiptoes.  Suddenly  Prue  put  her  head  in 
at  the  door  and  gasped: 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  are  you  and  poppa  up 
to?  Do  you  want  to  wake  Orton?" 

Papa  had  to  explain: 

"I  got  a  new  step,  Prue.  Goes  like  this.  Come  on, 
momma." 

Serina  shyly  took  her  place  in  his  arms;  but  they 
had  taken  only  a  few  strides  when  Prue  hissed: 

354 


DAUGHTERS    OF    SHILOH 

"'Sh-h!    Don't  do  it!    Stop  it!" 
"Why?" 

"In  the  first  place  it's  out  of  date.     And  in  the 
second  place  it's  not  respectable." 

Then  the  hard-working  locust,  having  rebuked  the 

frivolous  ants,  went  back  to  bed. 

24 


"A"  AS   IN  "FATHER5 


FOR  two  years  life  at  Harvard  was  one  long 
siesta  to  Orson  Carver,  2d.  And  then  he  fell 
off  the  window-seat.  Orson  Carver,  ist,  ordered 
him  to  wake  up  and  get  to  work  at  once.  Orson 
announced  to  his  friends  that  he  was  leaving  college 
to  pay  an  extensive  visit  to  "Carthage"  and  it 
sounded  magnificent  until  he  added,  "in  the  Middle 
West." 

A  struggling  young  railroad  had  succumbed  to 
hard  times  out  there,  and  Orson  senior  had  been 
appointed  receiver.  It  was  the  Carthage,  Thebes  & 
Rome  Railroad,  connecting  three  towns  whose  names 
were  larger  than  their  populations. 

Since  Orson  had  seemed  unable  to  decide  what 
career  to  choose,  if  any,  his  father  decided  for  him — 
decided  that  he  should  take  up  railroading  and  be- 
gin at  the  beginning,  which  was  the  office  at  Car- 
thage. And  Orson  went  West  to  "grow  up  young 
man  with  the  country." 

Carthage  bore  not  the  faintest  resemblance  to 
the  moving-picture  life  of  the  West;  he  didn't  see 
a  single  person  on  horseback.  Yet  his  mother 

356 


"A'     AS    IN    "FATHER' 

thought  of  him  as  one  who  had  vanished  into  the 
Mojave  desert.  She  wrote  to  warn  him  not  to  drink 
the  alkali  water. 

Young  Orson,  regarding  the  villagers  with  patient 
disdain,  was  amazed  to  find  that  they  were  patroniz- 
ing him  with  amusement.  They  spoke  of  his  adored 
Boston  as  an  old-fogy  place  with  "no  git-up-and-git." 

Orson's  mother  was  somewhat  comforted  when  he 
wrote  her  that  the  young  women  of  Carthage  were 
noisy  rowdies  dressed  like  frumps.  She  was  a  trifle 
alarmed  when  she  read  in  his  next  letter  that  some 
of  them  were  not  half  bad-looking,  surprisingly  well 
groomed  for  so  far  West,  and  fairly  attractive  till 
they  opened  their  mouths.  Then,  he  said,  they 
twanged  the  banjo  at  every  vowel  and  went  over 
the  letter  "r"  as  if  it  were  a  bump  in  the  road.  He 
had  no  desire  for  blinders,  but  he  said  that  he  would 
derive  comfort  from  a  pair  of  ear-muffs.  By  and  by 
he  was  writing  her  not  to  be  worried  about  losing 
him,  for  there  was  safety  in  numbers,  and  Carthage 
was  so  crowded  with  such  graces  that  he  could 
never  single  out  one  siren  among  so  many.  The 
word  "siren"  forced  his  mother  to  conclude  that 
even  their  voices  had  ceased  to  annoy  him.  She 
expected  him  to  bring  home  an  Indian  squaw  or  a 
cowgirl  bride  on  any  train. 

And  so  Orson  Carver  was  by  delicate  degrees  en- 
gulfed in  the  life  of  Carthage.  He  was  never  assimi- 
lated. He  kept  his  own  "dialect,"  as  they  called  it. 

The  girl  that  Orson  especially  attended  in  Car-. 
357 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

thage  was  Tudie  Litton,  as  pretty  a  creature  as  he 
could  imagine  or  desire.  For  manifest  reasons  he 
affected  an  interest  in  her  brother  Arthur.  And 
Arthur,  with  a  characteristic  brotherly  feeling,  tried 
to  keep  his  sister  in  her  place.  He  not  only  told  her 
that  she  was  "not  such  a  much,"  but  he  also  said  to 
Orson : 

"You  think  my  sister  is  some  girl,  but  wait  till 
you  see  Em  Terriberry.  She  makes  Tudie  look  like 
something  the  pup  found  outside.  Just  you  wait  till 
you  see  Em.  She's  been  to  boarding-school  and 
made  some  swell  friends  there,  and  they've  taken 
her  to  Europe  with  'em.  Just  you  wait." 

"I'll  wait,"  said  Orson,  and  proceeded  to  do  so. 

But  Em  remained  out  of  town  so  long  that  he  had 
begun  to  believe  her  a  myth,  when  one  day  the  word 
passed  down  the  line  that  she  was  coming  home  at 
last. 

That  night  Tudie  murmured  a  hope  that  Orson 
would  not  be  so  infatuated  with  the  new-comer  as 
to  cast  old  "friends"  aside.  She  underlined  the 
word  "friends"  with  a  long,  slow  sigh  like  a  heavy 
pen-stroke,  and  not  without  reason,  for  the  word  by 
itself  was  mild  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  "friends" 
were  seated  in  a  motionless  hammock  in  a  moon- 
sheltered  porch  corner  and  holding  on  to  each  other 
as  if  a  comet  had  struck  the  earth  and  they  were  in 
grave  danger  of  being  flung  off  the  planet. 

Orson  assured  Tudie:  "No  woman  exists  who  could 
come  between  us!"  And  a  woman  must  have  been 

358 


"A'     AS    IN    "FATHER" 

supernaturally  thin  to  achieve  the  feat  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

But  even  Tudie,  in  her  jealous  dread,  had  no  word 
to  say  against  the  imminent  Em.  Everybody  spoke 
so  well  of  her  that  Orson  had  a  mingled  expectation 
of  seeing  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Sister  of  Charity  rolled 
into  one. 

Now  Carthage  was  by  no  means  one  of  those  petty 
towns  where  nearly  everybody  goes  to  the  station 
to  meet  nearly  every  train.  But  nearly  everybody 
went  down  to  see  Em  arrive.  Foremost  among  the 
throng  was  Arthur  Litton.  Before  Em  left  town  he 
and  she  had  been  Engaged  "on  approval."  While 
she  was  away  he  kept  in  practice  by  taking  Liddy 
Sovey  to  parties  and  prayer-meetings  and  picnics. 
Now  that  Em  was  on  the  way  home  Arthur  let 
Liddy  drop  with  a  thud  and  groomed  himself  once 
more  to  wear  the  livery  of  Em's  fiance. 

When  the  crowd  met  the  train  it  was  recognized 
that  Arthur  was  next  in  importance  to  Em's  father 
and  mother.  Nobody  dreamed  of  pushing  up  ahead 
of  him.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  melee  stood  Orson 
Carver.  He  gave  railroad  business  as  the  pretext 
for  his  visit  to  the  station,  and  he  hovered  in  the 
offing. 

As  the  train  from  the  East  slid  in,  voices  cried, 
"Hello,  Em!"  "Woo-oo!"  "Oh,  Em!"  "Oh,  you 
Emma!"  and  other  Carthage  equivalents  for  "dve!" 
and  "all  hail!" 

Orson  saw  that  a  girl  standing  on  the  Pullman 
359 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

platform  waved  a  handkerchief  and  smiled  joy- 
ously in  response.  This  must  be  Em.  When  the 
train  stopped  with  a  pneumatic  wail  she  descended 
the  steps  like  a  young  queen  coming  down  from  a 
dais. 

She  was  gowned  to  the  minute;  she  carried  herself 
with  metropolitan  poise;  her  very  hilarity  had  the 
city  touch.  Orson  longed  to  dash  forward  and  throw 
his  coat  under  her  feet,  to  snatch  away  the  porter's 
hand-step  and  put  his  heart  there  in  its  place.  But 
he  could  not  do  these  things  unintroduced.  He  hung 
back  and  watched  her  hug  her  mother  and  father  in 
a  brief  wrestling-match  while  Arthur  stood  by  in 
simpering  homage. 

When  she  reached  out  her  hand  to  Arthur  he 
wrung  it  and  clung  to  it  with  the  dignity  of  pro- 
prietorship and  a  smirk  that  seemed  to  say:  "I 
own  this  beautiful  object,  and  I  could  kiss  her  if 
I  wanted  to.  And  she  would  like  it.  But  I  am  too 
well  bred  to  do  such  a  thing  in  the  presence  of  so 
many  people." 

Orson  was  not  close  enough  to  hear  what  he 
actually  said.  The  glow  in  his  eyes,  however,  was 
enough.  Then  Em  visibly  spoke.  When  her  lips 
moved  Arthur  stared  at  her  aghast;  seemed  to  ask 
her  to  repeat  what  she  said.  She  evidently  did. 
Now  Arthur  looked  askance  as  if  her  words  shocked 
him. 

Her  father  and  mother,  too,  exchanged  glances  of 
dismay  and  chagrin.  The  throng  of  friends  pressing 

360 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

forward  in  noisy  salutation  was  silenced  as  if  a  great 
hand  were  clapped  over  every  murmurous  mouth. 

Orson  wondered  what  terrible  thing  the  girl  could 
have  spoken.  There  was  nothing  coarse  in  her 
manner.  Delicacy  and  grace  seemed  to  mark  her. 
And  whatever  it  was  she  said  she  smiled  luminously 
when  she  said  it. 

The  look  in  her  eyes  was  incompatible  with  pro- 
fanity, mild  soever.  Yet  her  language  must  have 
been  appall  ng,  for  her  father  and  mother  blushed 
and  seemed  to  be  ashamed  of  bringing  her  into  the 
world,  sorry  that  she  had  come  home.  The  ovation 
froze  away  into  a  c6nfused  babble. 

What  could  the  girl  have  said? 

II 

Orson  was  called  in  by  the  station  agent  before  he 
could  question  any  of  the  greeters.  When  he  was 
released  the  throng  had  dispersed.  The  Terriberrys 
had  clambered  into  the  family  surrey  and  driven 
home  with  their  disgrace. 

But  that  night  there  was  a~party  at  the  Littons', 
planned  in  Emma's  honor.  Tudie  had  invited  Orson 
to  be  present. 

He  found  that  the  one  theme  of  conversation  was 
Emma.  Everybody  said  to  him,  "Have  you  seen 
Emma?"  and  when  he  said  "Yes,"  everybody  de- 
manded, "Have  you  heard  her?"  and  when  he  said 
"No"  everybody  said,  "Just  you  wait!" 

361 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Orson  was  growing  desperate  over  the  mystery. 
He  seized  Newt  Elkey  by  the  arm  and  said,  "What 
does  she  do?" 

"What  does  who  do?" 

"This  Miss  Em  Terriberry.  Everybody  says, 
'Have  you  heard  her?' 3 

"Well,  haven't  you?" 

"No!     What  under  the  sun  does  she  say?" 

"Just  you  wait.    'Shh!" 

Then  Emma  came  down  the  stairs  like  a  slowly 
swooping  angel. 

She  had  seemed  a  princess  in  her  traveling-togs; 
in  her  evening  gown — !  Orson  had  not  seen  such  a 
gown  since  he  had  been  in  Paris.  He  imagined  this 
girl  poised  on  the  noble  stairway  of  the  Opera  there. 
Em  came  floating  down  upon  these  small-town  girls 
with  this  fabric  from  heavenly  looms,  and  reduced 
them  once  for  all  to  a  chorus. 

But  there  was  no  scorn  in  her  manner  and  no 
humility  in  her  welcome.  The  Carthage  girls  frankly 
gave  her  her  triumph,  yet  when  she  reached  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  and  the  waiting  Arthur  she  murmured 
something  that  broke  the  spell.  The  crowd  rippled 
with  suppressed  amusement.  Arthur  flushed. 

Orson  was  again  too  remote  to  hear.  But  he  could 
feel  the  wave  of  derision,  and  he  could  see  the  hot 
shame  on  Arthur's  cheeks.  Emma  bent  low  for  her 
train,  took  Arthur's  arm,  and  disappeared  into  the 
parlor  where  the  dancing  had  begun. 

Orson  felt  his  arm  pinched,  and  turned  to  find 
362 


"A':    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

Tudie  looking  at  him.     "This   is   our  dance,"  she 
said,  "unless  you'd  rather  dance  with  her." 

"With  her?     With  Miss  Terriberry,  you  mean?" 
"Naturally.     You  were  staring  at  her  so  hard  I 
thought  your  eyes  would  roll  out  on  the  floor." 

There  was  only  one  way  to  quell  this  mutiny, 
and  that  was  to  soothe  it  away.  He  caught  Tudie 
in  his  arms.  It  was  strenuous  work  bumping  about 
in  that  little  parlor,  and  collisions  were  incessant, 
but  he  wooed  Tudie  as  if  they  were  afloat  in  inter- 
stellar spaces. 

They  collided  oftenest  with  Arthur  and  his  Emma, 
for  the  lucky  youdi  who  held  that  drifting  nymph 
seemed  most  unhappy  in  his  pride.  The  girl  was 
talking  amiably,  but  the  man  was  grim  and  furtive 
and  as  careless  of  his  steering  as  a  tipsy  chauffeur. 

Orson  forgot  himself  enough  to  comment  to  Tudie, 
"Your  brother  doesn't  seem  to  be  enjoying  him- 
self." 

"Poor  boy,  he's  heartbroken." 
"Why?" 

"He's  so  disappointed  with  Em." 
"I  can't  see  anything  wrong  with  her." 
"Evidently  not;  but  have  you  heard  her?" 
In  a  sudden  access  of  rage  Orson  stopped  short 
in  the  middle  of  the  swirl,  and,  ignoring  the  battery 
of  other  dancers,  demanded,  "In  Heaven's   name, 
what's  the  matter  with  the  girl?" 

"Nothing,  I  should  judge  from  the  look  on  your 
face  after  your  close  inspection." 

363 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  don't  begin  on  me;  but  tell 
me—" 

"Talk  to  her  and  find  out,"  said  Tudie,  with  a 
twang  that  resounded  as  the  music  came  to  a  stop. 
"Oh,  Em — Miss  Terriberry,  this  is  Mr.  Carver;  he's 
dying  to  meet  you." 

She  whirled  around  so  quickly  that  he  almost  fell 
into  the  girl's  arms.  She  received  him  with  a  smile 
of  self-possession:  "Chahmed,  Mr.  Cahveh." 

Orson's  Eastern  ears,  expecting  some  horror  of 
speech,  felt  delight  instead.  She  did  not  say 
"charrmed"  like  an  alarm-clock  breaking  out.  She 
did  not  trundle  his  name  up  like  a  wheelbarrow. 
She  softened  the  "a"  and  ignored  the  "r." 

Tudie  rolled  the  "r"  on  his  ear-drums  as  with 
drum-sticks,  and  by  contrast  the  sound  came  to 
him  as:  "Misterr  Carrverr  comes  from  Harrvarrd. 
He  calls  it  Havvad." 

"Oh,"  said  Em,  with  further  illumination,  "I 
woah  the  Hahvahd  colohs  the  lahst  time  I  went  to 
a  game." 

Orson  wanted  to  say  something  about  her  lips 
being  the  perfect  Havvad  crimson,  but  he  did  not 
quite  dare — yet.  And  being  of  New  England,  he 
would  always  be  parsimonious  with  flatteries. 

Tudie  hooked  her  brother's  arm  and  said  with  an 
angelic  spitefulness,  "We'll  leave  you  two  together," 
and  swished  away. 

Orson  immediately  asked  for  the  next  dance  and 
Em  granted  it.  While  they  were  waiting  for  the 

364 


"A'     AS    IN    "FATHER" 

rheumatic  piano  to  resume  they  promenaded.  Orson 
noted  that  everybody  they  passed  regarded  them 
with  a  sly  and  cynical  amusement.  It  froze  all  the 
language  on  his  lips,  and  the  girl  was  still  breathing 
so  fast  from  the  dance  that  she  apologized.  Orson 
wanted  to  tell  her  how  glorious  she  looked  with  her 
cheeks  kindled,  her  lips  parted,  and  her  young 
bosom  panting.  But  he  suppressed  the  feverish 
impulse.  And  he  wondered  more  and  more  what 
ridiculous  quality  the  Carthaginians  could  have 
found  in  her  who  had  returned  in  such  splendor. 

The  piano  exploded  now  with  a  brazen  impudence 
of  clamor.  Orsdn  opened  his  arms  to  her,  but  she 
shook  her  head:  "Oh,  I  cahn't  dahnce  again  just 
yet.  You'd  bettah  find  anothah  pahtnah." 

She  said  it  meekly,  and  seemed  to  be  shyly  pleased 
when  he  said  he  much  preferred  to  sit  it  out.  And 
they  sat  it  out — on  the  porch.  Moonlight  could  not 
have  been  more  luscious  on  Cleopatra's  barge  than 
it  was  there.  The  piazza,  which  needed  paint  in 
the  daylight,  was  blue  enameled  by  the  moon.  The 
girl's  voice  was  in  key  with  the  harmony  of  the  hour 
and  she  brought  him  tidings  from  the  East  and  from 
Europe.  They  were  as  grateful  as  home  news  in 
exile. 

He  expected  to  have  her  torn  from  him  at  any 
moment.  But,  to  his  amazement,  no  one  came  to 
demand  her.  They  were  permitted  to  sit  undis- 
turbed for  dance  after  dance.  She  was  suffering 
ostracism.  The  more  he  talked  to  her  the  more  he 

365 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

was  puzzled.  Even  Arthur  did  not  appear.  Even 
the  normal  jealousy  of  a  fiance  was  not  evident. 
Orson's  brain  grew  frantic  for  explanation.  The 
girl  was  not  wicked,  nor  insolent.  She  plainly  had 
no  contagious  disease,  no  leprosy,  no  plague,  not 
even  a  cold.  Then  why  was  she  persecuted? 

He  was  still  fretting  when  the  word  was  passed 
that  supper  was  ready,  and  they  were  called  in. 
Plates  and  napkins  were  handed  about  by  obliging 
young  gallants;  chicken  salad  and  sandwiches  were 
dealt  out  with  a  lavish  hand,  and  ice-cream  and 
cake  completed  the  banquet. 

Arthur  had  the  decency  to  sit  with  Em  and  to 
bring  her  things  to  eat,  but  he  munched  grimly  at 
his  own  fodder.  Orson  tagged  along  and  sat  on  the 
same  sofa.  It  was  surprising  how  much  noise  the 
guests  made  while  they  consumed  their  food.  The 
laughter  and  clatter  contrasted  with  the  soft  speech 
of  Em,  all  to  her  advantage. 

When  the  provender  was  gone,  and  the  plates 
were  removed,  Tudie  whisked  Orson  away  to  dance 
with  her.  As  he  danced  he  noted  that  Em  was  a 
wall-flower,  trying  to  look  unconcerned,  but  finally 
seeking  shelter  by  the  side  of  Tudie's  mother,  who 
gave  her  scant  hospitality. 

Tudie  began  at  once,  "Well,  have  you  found  out?" 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"Didn't  you  notice  how  affected  she  is?" 

"No  more  than  any  other  girl." 

"Oh,  thank  you!     So  you  think  I'm  affected." 
366 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

"Not  especially.  But  everybody  is,  one  way  or 
another — even  the  animals  and  the  birds." 

"Really!    And  what  is  my  affectation?" 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  did. 
What's  Miss  Terriberry's?" 

"Didn't  you  dahnce  with  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that's  it." 

"What's  that?" 

"She  says  'dahnce,'  doesn't  she?" 

"I  believe  she  does." 

"Well,  she  used  to  say  'dannce'  like  the  rest  of 
us." 

"What  of  it?    Is  it  a  sin  to  change?" 

"It's  an  affectation." 

"Why?    Is  education  an  affectation?" 

"Oh!   so  you  call  the  rest  of  us  uneducated?" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  no!  You  know  too  much,  if 
anything.  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Miss 
Terriberry?" 

Because  their  minds  were  at  such  loggerheads  their 
feet  could  not  keep  measure.  They  dropped  out  of 
the  dance  and  sought  the  porch,  while  Tudie  raged  on : 

"She  has  no  right  to  put  on  airs.  Her  father  is 
no  better  than  mine.  Who  is  she,  anyway,  that  she 
should  say  'dahnce'  and  'cahnV  and  'chahmed'?" 

Orson  was  amazed  at  the  depths  of  bitterness 
stirred  up  by  a  mere  question  of  pronunciation.  He 
answered,  softly:  "Some  of  the  meekest  people  in 
the  world  use  the  soft  'a.'  I  say  'dahnce.' ' 

367 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  help  saying  it." 

"Yes,  I  could  if  I  tried." 

"But  you  were  born  where  everybody  talks  like 
that.  Em  was  born  out  here." 

"She  has  traveled,  though." 

"So  have  I.  And  I  didn't  come  back  playing 
copy-cat.'* 

"It's  natural  for  some  people  to  mimic  others. 
She  may  not  be  as  strong-minded  as  you  are."  He 
thought  that  rather  diplomatic.  "Besides  'dannce' 
and  'cann't'  aren't  correct." 

"Oh  yes,  they  are!" 

"Oh  no,  they're  not!  Not  by  any  dictionary 
ever  printed." 

"Then  they'd  better  print  some  more.  Dictionaries 
don't  know  everything.  They're  very  inconsistent." 

"Naturally." 

"Now  you  say  'tomahto'  where  I  say  'tomayto.' ' 

"Yes." 

"Why  don't  you  say  'potahto'?" 

"Because  nobody  does." 

"Well,  nobody  that  was  born  out  here  says 
['dahnce'  and  'cahn't.'  " 

"But  she's  been  East  and  in  Europe,  and — where's 
the  harm  of  it,  anyway?  What's  your  objection  to 
i  the  soft*  a'?" 

"It's  all  right  for  those  that  are  used  to  it." 
^"But   you    say    'father.'     Why    don't   you   say 
/rather'  to  rhyme  with  it?'* 

"Don't  be  foolish." 

368 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

"I'm  trying  not  to  be." 

"Well,  then,  don't  try  to  convince  me  that  Em 
Terriberry  is  a  wonderful  creature  because  she's 
picked  up  a  lot  of  foreign  mannerisms  and  comes 
home  thinking  she's  better  than  the  rest  of  us. 
We'll  show  her — the  conceited  thing!  Her  own 
father  and  mother  are  ashamed  of  her,  and  Arthur 
is  so  disgusted  the  poor  boy  doesn't  know  what  to 
do.  I  think  he  ought  to  give  her  a  good  talking  to 
or  break  off  the  engagement." 

Orson  sank  back  stunned  at  the  ferocity  of  her 
manner.  He  beheld  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire 
kindleth.  It  was  so  natural  to  him  to  speak  as  Miss 
Terriberry  spoke  that  he  could  not  understand  the 
hatred  the  alien  "a"  and  the  suppressed  "r"  could 
evoke  among  those  native  to  the  flat  vowel  and  the 
protuberant  consonant.  He  was  yet  to  learn  to 
what  lengths  disputes  could  go  over  quirks  of 
speech. 

ill 

The  very  "talking  to"  that  Tudie  believed  her 
brother  ought  to  give  his  betrothed  he  was  giving 
her  at  that  moment  at  the  other  end  of  the  porch. 
Arthur  had  hesitated  to  attempt  the  reproof.  It 
was  not  pleasant  to  broach  the  subject,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  dangerous,  since  Em  was  high-spirited. 
Even  when  she  expressed  a  wonder  at  the  coolness 
of  everybody's  behavior  he  could  not  find  the  courage 
for  the  lecture  seething  in  his  indignant  heart. 

369 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  was  worrying  through  a  perfunctory  consola- 
tion: "Oh,  you  just  imagine  that  people  are  cold  to 
you,  Em.  Everybody's  tickled  to  death  to  have  you 
home.  You  see,  Em — " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  Em,"  she  said. 

"It's  your  name,  isn't  it?" 

"It'sapartofmyoldname;  but  I've  changed  Emma 
to  Amelie.  After  this  I  want  to  be  called  Amelie." 

If  she  had  announced  her  desire  to  wear  trousers 
on  the  street,  or  to  smoke  a  pipe  in  church,  or  even 
to  go  in  for  circus-riding,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  appalled  than  he  was  at  what  she  said. 

"Amelie?"  he  gasped.  "What  in  the  name  of — 
of  all  that's  sensible  is  that  for?" 

"I  hate  Em.  It's  ugly.  It  sounds  like  a  letter  of 
the  alphabet.  I  like  Amelie  better.  It's  pretty  and 
I  choose  it." 

"But  look  here,  Em — " 

"Amelie." 

"This  is  carrying  things  too  blamed  far." 

He  was  not  entirely  heedless  of  her  own  welfare. 
He  had  felt  the  animosity  and  ridicule  that  had 
gathered  like  sultry  electricity  in  the  atmosphere 
when  Emma  had  murmured  at  the  station  those 
words  that  Orson  had  not  heard. 

Orson,  seated  with  Tudie  at  one  end  of  the  porch, 
heard  them  now  at  the  other  end  of  the  porch  as 
they  were  quoted  with  mockery  by  Arthur.  Orson 
and  Tudie  forgot  their  own  quarrel  in  the  supernal 
rapture  of  eavesdropping  somebody's  else  wrangle. 

370 


"A'     AS    IN    "FATHER' 

"When  you  got  off  the  train,"  Arthur  groaned, 
"you  knocked  me  off  my  pins  by  what  you  said  to 
your  father  and  mother." 

"And  what  did  I  say  ?"  said  Em  in  innocent  wonder. 

"You  said,  'Oh,  my  dolling  m'mah,  I  cahn't  be- 
lieve it's  you'!" 

"What  was  wrong  with  that?" 

"You  used  to  call  her  *  momma*  and  you  called 
me  'darrling.'  And  you  wouldn't  have  dared  to 
say  'cahn't'!  When  I  heard  you  I  wanted  to  die. 
Then  you  grabbed  your  father  and  gurgled,  'Oh, 
p'pah,  you  deah  old  Wigel!'  I  nearly  dropped  in 
my  tracks,  and  so  did  your  father.  And  then  you 
turned  to  me  and  I  knew  what  was  coming!  I  tried 
to  stop  you,  but  I  couldn't.  And  you  said  it!  You 
called  me 'Ahthuh'!" 

"Isn't  that  your  name,  deah?" 

"No,  it  is  not!  My  name  is  'Arrthurr'  and  you 
know  it!  'Ahthuh'!  what  do  you  think  I  am?  My 
name  is  good  honest  'Arrthurr.'  '  He  said  it  like  a 
good  honest  watch-dog,  and  he  gnarred  the  "r"  in 
the  manner  that  made  the  ancients  call  it  the  canine 
letter. 

Amelie,  born  Emma,  laughed  at  his  rage.  She 
tried  to  appease  him.  "I  think  'Ahthuh'  is  prettiah. 
It  expresses  my  tendah  feelings  bettah.  The  way 
you  say  it,  it  sounds  like  garrgling  something." 

But  her  levity  in  such  a  crisis  only  excited  her 
lover  the  more.  "Everybody  at  the  station  was 
laughing  at  you.  To-night  when  you  traipsed  down 

25  37i 


IN   A    LITTLE   TOWN 

the  stairs,  looking  so  pretty  in  your  new  dress,  you 
had  to  spoil  everything  by  saying:  'What  a  chahm- 
ing  pahty.  Shall  we  dahnce,  Ahthuh  ?'  I  just  wanted 
to  die." 

The  victim  of  his  tirade  declined  to  wither.  She 
answered:  "I  cahn't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  to 
have  humiliated  you.  But  if  it's  a  sin  to  speak 
correctly  you'll  have  to  get  used  to  it." 

"No,  I  won't;  but  you'll  get  over  it.  You  can 
live  it  down  in  time;  but  don't  you  dare  try  to 
change  your  name  to  Amelie.  They'd  laugh  you  out 
of  Carthage." 

"Oh,  would  they  now?  Well,  Amelie  is  my  name 
for  heahaftah,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  call  me  that 
you  needn't  call  me  anything." 

"Look  here,  Em." 

"Amelie." 

"Emamelie!   for  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  a  snob!" 

"You're  the  snob,  not  I.  There's  just  as  much 
snobbery  in  sticking  to  mispronunciation  as  there  is 
in  being  correct.  And  just  as  much  affectation  in 
talking  with  a  burr  as  in  dropping  it.  You  think 
it's  all  right  for  me  to  dress  as  they  do  in  New  York. 
Why  shouldn't  I  talk  the  same  way?  If  it's  all  right 
for  me  to  put  on  a  pretty  gown  and  weah  my  haiah 
the  most  becoming  way,  why  cahn't  I  improve  my 
name,  too?  You  cahn't  frighten  me.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you  or  the  rest  of  your  backwoods  friends. 
Beauty  is  my  religion,  and  if  necessary  I'll  be  a 
mahtah  to  it." 

372 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

"You'll  be  a  what?" 

"A  mahtah." 

"Do  you  mean  a  motto?" 

"I  mean  what  you'd  call  a  marrtyrr.  But  I  won't 
make  you  one.  I'll  release  you  from  our  engagement, 
and  you  can  go  back  to  Liddy  Sovey.  I  understand 
you've  been  rushing  her  very  hahd.  And  you 
needn't  take  me  home.  I'll  get  back  by  the  gahden 
pahth." 

She  rose  and  swept  into  the  house,  followed  by 
her  despairing  swain. 

Orson  and  Tudie  eavesdropped  in  silence.  Tudie 
was  full  of  scorn.  Amelie's  arguments  were  piffle  or 
worse  to  her,  and  her  willingness  to  undergo  "martyr- 
dom" for  them  was  the  most  arrant  pigheadedness, 
as  the  martyrdom  of  alien  creeds  usually  is. 

Orson,  the  alien,  was  full  of  amazement.  Here 
was  a  nice  young  man  in  love  with  a  beautiful  young 
woman.  He  had  been  devoted  for  years,  and  now, 
because  she  had  slightly  altered  her  habits  in  one 
vowel  and  one  consonant,  their  love  was  curdled. 


IV 

Greater  wars  have  begun  from  less  causes  and 
been  waged  more  fiercely.  They  say  that  an  ava- 
lanche can  be  brought  down  from  a  mountain  by  a 
whispered  word.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  the 
murmur  of  a  vowel  and  the  murder  of  a  consonant 
should  precipitate  upon  the  town  of  Carthage  the 

373 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

stored-up  snows  of  tradition.  Business  was  dull  in 
the  village  and  any  excitement  was  welcome.  Be- 
fore Emma's  return  there  had  been  a  certain  slight 
interest  in  pronunciation. 

Orson  Carver  had  for  a  time  stimulated  amuse- 
ment by  his  droll  talk.  He  had  been  suspected  for 
some  time  of  being  an  impostor  because  he  spoke  of 
his  university  as  "Havvad."  The  Carthaginians 
did  not  expect  him  to  call  it  "Harrvarrd,"  as  it  was 
spelled,  but  they  had  always  understood  that  true 
graduates  called  it  "Hawvawd,"  and  local  humor- 
ists won  much  laughter  by  calling  it  "Haw-haw- 
vawd."  Orson  had  bewildered  them  further  by  a 
sort  of  cockneyism  of  misappropriated  letters.  He 
used  the  flat  "a"  in  words  where  Carthaginians 
used  the  soft,  as  in  his  own  name  and  his  univer- 
sity's. He  saved  up  the  "r"  that  he  dropped  from 
its  rightful  place  and  put  it  on  where  it  did  not 
belong,  as  in  "idear."  He  had  provoked  roars  of 
laughter  one  evening  when  a  practical  joker  re- 
quested him  to  read  a  list  of  the  books  of  the  Bible, 
and  he  had  mentioned  "Numbas,  Joshuar,  Ezrar, 
Nehemiar,  Estha,  Provubbs,  Isaiar,  Jeremiar." 

Eventually  he  was  eclipsed  by  another  young 
man  sent  to  a  post  in  the  C.,  T.  &  R.  Railroad  by 
an  ambitious  parent — Jefferson  Digney,  of  Yale. 
Digney,  born  and  raised  in  Virginia  and  removed  to 
Georgia,  had  taken  his  accent  to  New  Haven  and 
taken  it  away  with  him  unsullied.  His  Southern 
speech  had  given  Carthage  acute  joy  for  a  while. 

374 


"A"'    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

Arthur  Litton  had  commented  once  on  the  con- 
trast between  Orson  and  Jefferson.  "Neither  of  you 
can  pronounce  the  name  of  his  State,"  said  Arthur. 
"He  calls  it  'JawjV  and  you  call  it  'Jahjar.' ' 

"What  should  it  be?" 

"Jorrjuh." 

"Really!" 

"You  can't  pronounce  your  own  name/' 

"Oh,  cahn'tl?" 

"No,  you  cahn't  I.  You  call  it  'Cavveh.'  He 
calls  it  'Cyahvah.'" 

"What  ought  it  to  be?" 

"Carrvurr — as  it's  spelt." 

Yet  another  new-comer  to  the  town  was  an  English- 
man, Anthony  Hopper,  a  younger  son  of  a  stock- 
holder abroad.  He  was  not  at  all  the  Englishman 
of  the  stage,  and  the  Carthaginians  were  astonished 
to  find  that  he  did  not  drop  his  "h's"  or  missapply 
them.  And  he  never  once  said  "fawncy,"  but  flat 
"fancy."  He  did  not  call  himself  "Hanthony 
'Opper,"  as  they  expected.  But  he  did  take  a 
"  caold  bahth  in  the  mawning." 

With  a  New  Englander,  an  old  Englander,  and 
an  Atlantan  in  the  town,  Carthage  took  an  aston- 
ishing interest  in  pronunciation  that  winter.  When 
conversation  flagged  anybody  could  raise  a  laugh 
by  referring  to  their  outlandish  pronunciations. 
Quoting  their  remarks  took  the  place  of  such  parlor 
games  as  trying  to  say  "She  sells  sea  shells,"  or 
"The  sea  ceaseth  and  it  sufficeth  us." 

375 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

The  foreigners  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  and 
retorted  with  burlesques  of  Carthagese.  They  were 
received  with  excellent  sportsmanship.  One  might 
have  been  led  to  believe  that  the  Carthaginians 
took  the  matter  of  pronunciation  lightly,  since  they 
could  laugh  tolerantly  at  foreigners.  This,  however, 
was  because  the  foreigners  had  missed  advantages 
of  Carthaginian  standards. 

Emma  Terriberry's  crime  was  not  in  her  pro- 
nunciation, but  in  the  fact  that  she  had  changed  it. 
Having  come  from  Carthage,  she  must  forever  re- 
main a  Carthagenian  or  face  down  a  storm  of  wrath. 
Her  quarrel  with  her  lover  was  the  beginning  of  a 
quarrel  with  the  whole  town. 

Arthur  Litton  became  suddenly  a  hero,  like  the 
first  man  wounded  in  a  war.  The  town  rallied  to 
his  support.  Emma  was  a  heartless  wretch,  who 
had  insulted  a  faithful  lover  because  he  would  not 
become  as  abject  a  toady  to  the  hateful  East  as  she 
was.  Her  new  name  became  a  byword.  Her  pro- 
nunciations were  heard  everywhere  in  the  most 
ruthless  parody.  She  was  accused  of  things  that  she 
never  had  said,  things  that  nobody  could  ever  say. 

They  inflicted  on  her  the  impossible  habit  of  con- 
sistency. She  was  reported  as  calling  a  hat  a  "hot," 
a  rat  a  "rot,"  of  teaching  her  little  sister  to  read  from 
the  primer,  "Is  the  cot  on  the  mot?"  Pronunciation 
became  a  test  of  character.  The  soft  "r"  and  the 
hard  "a"  were  taken  as  proofs  of  effeminate  hy- 
pocrisy. 

376 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

Carthage  differed  only  in  degree,  not  in  kind,  from 
old  Italy  at  the  time  of  the  "Sicilian  Vespers," 
when  they  called  upon  everybody  to  pronounce  the 
word  "ciceri."  The  natives  who  could  say  "chee- 
cheree"  escaped,  but  the  poor  French  who  could 
come  no  nearer  than  "seeseree"  were  butchered. 
Gradually  now  in  Carthage  the  foreigners  from 
Massachusetts,  Georgia,  England,  and  elsewhere 
ceased  to  be  regarded  with  tolerance.  Their  accents 
no  longer  amused.  They  gave  offense. 

In  the  railroad  office  there  were  six  or  seven  of 
these  new-comers.  T^hey  were  driven  together  by 
indignation.  They  took  up  Amelie's  cause;  made 
her  their  queen;  declined  invitations  in  which  she 
was  not  included;  gave  parties  in  her  honor:  took 
her  buggy-riding.  Each  had  his  day. 

A  few  girls  could  not  endure  her  triumph.  They 
broke  away  from  the  fold  and  became  renegades, 
timidly  softening  their  speech.  This  infuriated  the 
others,  and  the  town  was  split  into  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline. 

Amelie  enjoyed  the  notoriety  immensely.  She 
flaunted  her  success.  She  ridiculed  the  Carthage 
people  as  yokels.  She  burlesqued  their  jargon  as 
outrageously  as  they  hers. 

The  soda-water  fountains  became  battle-fields  of 
backbiting  and  mockery.  The  feuds  were  as  bitter, 
if  not  as  deadly,  as  those  that  flourished  around  the 
fountains  in  medieval  Italian  towns.  Two  girls 
would  perch  on  the  drug-store  stools  back  to  back, 

377 


IN   A    LITTLE    TOWN 

and  bicker  in  pretended  ignorance  of  each  other's 
presence.  Tudie  Litton  would  order  "sahsahpah- 
rillah,"  which  she  hated,  just  to  mock  Amelie's 
manner;  and  Amelie,  assuming  to  be  ignorant  of 
Tudie's  existence,  would  retort  by  ordering  "a 
strorrburry  sody  wattur."  Then  each  would  laugh 
recklessly  but  miserably. 

The  church  at  which  the  Terriberrys  worshiped 
was  almost  torn  apart  by  the  matter.  The  more 
ardent  partisans  felt  that  Amelie's  unrepentant  soul 
had  no  right  in  the  sacred  edifice.  Others  urged 
that  there  should  be  a  truce  to  factions  there,  as  in 
heaven.  One  Sunday  dear  old  Dr.  Brearley,  ob- 
livious of  the  whole  war,  as  of  nearly  everything  else 
less  than  a  hundred  years  away,  chose  as  his  text 
Judges  xii:  6: 

"Then  said  they  unto  him,  Say  now  Shibboleth: 
and  he  said  Sibboleth:  for  he  could  not  frame  to 
pronounce  it  right.  Then  they  took  him,  and  slew 
him  at  the  passages  of  Jordan:  and  there  fell  at  that 
time  of  the  Ephraimites  forty  and  two  thousand." 

If  the  anti-Amelites  had  needed  any  increase  of 
enthusiasm  they  got  it  now.  They  had  Scripture  on 
their  side.  If  it  were  proper  for  the  men  of  Gilead, 
where  the  well-known  balm  came  from,  to  slay  forty- 
two  thousand  people  for  a  mispronunciation,  surely 
the  Carthaginians  had  authority  to  stand  by  their 
"alturrs"  and  their  "fi-urs"  and  protect  them  from 
those  who  called  them  "altahs"  and  "fiahs." 

No  country  except  ours  could  foster  such  a  feud. 
378 


:<A'     AS    IN    "FATHER'5 

No  language  except  the  chaos  we  fumble  with  could 
make  it  possible.  By  and  by  the  war  wore  out  of 
its  own  violence.  People  ceased  to  care  how  a  thing 
was  said,  and  began  to  take  interest  again  in  what 
was  said.  Those  who  had  mimicked  Amelie  had 
grown  into  the  habit  of  mimicry  until  they  half 
forgot  their  scorn.  The  old-time  flatness  and  burr 
began  to  soften  from  attrition,  to  be  modified  be- 
cause they  were  conspicuous.  You  would  have 
heard  Arthur  subduing  his  twang  and  unburring 
the  "r."  If  you  had  asked  him  he  would  have  told 
you  his  name  was  either  "Arthuh"  or  "Ahthur." 

Amelie  and  her  little  bodyguard,  on  the  other  hand, 
grew  so  nervous  of  the  sacred  emblems  that  they 
avoided  their  use.  When  they  came  to  a  word  con- 
taining an  "a"  or  a  final  "r"  they  hesitated  or  side- 
stepped and  let  it  pass.  Amelie  fell  into  the  habit 
of  saying  "couldn't"  for  "cahn't,"  and  "A.  M."  for 
."mawning." 

People  began  to  smile  when  they  met  her,  and 
she  smiled  back.  Slowly  everybody  that  had  "not 
been  speaking"  began  speaking,  bowing,  chatting. 
Now,  when  one  of  the  disputed  words  drifted  into 
the  talk,  each  tried  to  concede  a  little  to  the  other's 
belief,  as  soldiers  of  the  blue  and  the  gray  trod 
delicately  on  one  another's  toes  after  peace  was 
decreed.  Everybody  was  now  half  and  half,  or,  as 
Tudie  vividly  spoke  it,  "hafF  and  hahf. "  You  would 
hear  the  same  person  say  "hafF-pahst  ten,"  "hahf- 
passt  eleven,"  and  "hahf-pahst  twelve." 

379 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

Carthage  became  as  confused  in  its  language  as 
Alsace-Lorraine. 


All  through  this  tremendous  feud  Orson  Carver 
had  been  faithful  to  Amelie.  Whether  he  had  given 
Tudie  the  sack  or  she  him  was  never  decided.  But 
she  was  loyal  to  her  dialect.  He  ceased  to  call; 
Tudie  ceased  to  invite  him.  They  smiled  coldly  and 
still  more  coldly,  and  then  she  ceased  to  see  him 
when  they  met.  He  was  simply  transparent. 

Orson  was  Amelie's  first  cavalier  in  Carthage. 
He  found  her  mightily  attractive.  She  was  brisk 
of  wit  and  she  adored  his  Boston  and  his  ways. 
She  was  sufficiently  languorous  and  meek  in  the 
moonlight,  too — an  excellent  hammock-half. 

But  when  the  other  Outlanders  had  begun  to 
gather  to  her  standard  it  crowded  the  porch  un- 
comfortably. 

Dissension  rose  within  the  citadel.  Orson's 
father  had  fought  Jefferson's  father  in  1861-65. 
The  great-grandfathers  of  both  of  them  had  fought 
Anthony  Hopper's  forefathers  in  '76-83.  The 
pronunciations  of  the  three  grew  mutually  distaste- 
ful, and  dreadful  triangular  rows  took  place  on 
matters  of  speech. 

Amelie  sat  in  silence  while  they  wrangled,  and  her 
thoughts  reverted  to  Arthur  Litton.  He  had  loved 
her  well  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  her  and  rebuke 
her.  She  was  afraid  that  she  had  been  a  bit  of  a 

380 


"A"    AS    IN    "FATHER" 

snob,  a  trifle  caddish.  She  had  aired  her  new  accent 
and  her  new  clothes  a  trifle  too  insolently.  Old 
customs  grew  dear  to  her  like  old  slippers.  She 
remembered  the  Littons'  shabby  buggy  and  the  fuzzy 
horse,  and  the  drives  Arthur  and  she  had  taken  under 
the  former  moons. 

Her  father  and  mother  had  shocked  her  with  their 
modes  of  speech  when  she  came  home,  and  she  had 
ventured  to  rebuke  them.  She  felt  now  that  they 
ought  to  have  spanked  her.  A  great  tenderness 
welled  up  in  her  heart  for  them  and  their  homely 
ways.  She  wanted  to  be  like  them. 

The  village  was  taking  her  back  into  its  slumber- 
ous comfortableness. 

She  would  waken  from  her  reveries  to  hear  the 
aliens  arguing  their  alien  rules  of  speech.  It  sud- 
denly struck  her  that  they  were  all  wrong,  anyway. 
She  felt  an  impulse  to  run  for  a  broom  and  sweep 
them  off  into  space.  She  grew  curt  with  them. 
They  felt  the  chill  and  dropped  away,  all  but 
Orson.  At  last  his  lonely  mother  bullied  his  father 
into  recalling  him  from  the  Western  wilds. 

He  called  on  Amelie  to  bid  a  heartbreaking  good- 
by.  He  was  disconsolate.  He  asked  her  to  write 
to  him.  She  promised  she  would.  He  was  excited 
to  the  point  of  proposing.  She  declined  him  plain- 
tively. She  could  never  leave  the  old  folks.  "My 
place  is  here,"  she  said. 

He  left  her  and  walked  down  the  street  like  a 
moving  elegy. 


IN   A   LITTLE   TOWN 

He  suffered  agonies  of  regret  till  he  met  a  girl  on 
the  East-bound  train.  She  was  exceedingly  pretty 
and  he  made  a  thrilling  adventure  of  scraping 
acquaintance  with  her  mother  first,  and  thus  with 
her.  They  were  returning  to  Boston,  too.  They 
were  his  home  folks. 

When  at  last  the  train  hurtled  him  back  into 
Massachusetts  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  he  had 
ever  been  in  Carthage.  He  had  a  sharp  awakening. 

When  he  flung  his  arms  about  his  mother  and  told 
her  how  glad  he  was  to  see  her,  her  second  exclama- 
tion was:  "But  how  on  uth  did  you  acquiah  that 
ghahstly  Weste'n  accent?" 

One  evening  in  the  far-off  Middle  West  the  lonely 
Amelie  was  sitting  in  her  creaking  hammock,  won- 
dering how  she  could  endure  her  loneliness,  plotting 
how  she  could  regain  her  old  lover.  She  was  des- 
perately considering  a  call  upon  his  sister.  She 
would  implore  forgiveness  for  her  sin  of  vanity  and 
beg  Tudie's  intercession  with  Arthur.  She  had 
nearly  steeled  herself  to  this  glorious  contrition 
when  she  heard  a  warning  squeal  from  the  front  gate, 
a  slow  step  on  the  front  walk,  and  hesitant  feet  on 
the  porch  steps. 

And  there  he  stood,  a  shadow  against  the  shadow. 
In  a  sorrowful  voice  he  mumbled,  "Is  anybody 
home?" 

"I  am!"  she  cried.  "I  was  hoping  you  would 
come." 

382 


"A'     AS    IN    "FATHER" 

"No!" 

"Yes.    I  was  just  about  ready  to  telephone  you." 

There  was  so  much  more  than  hospitality  in  her 
voice  that  he  stumbled  forward.  Their  shadows 
collided  and  merged  in  one  embrace. 

"Oh,  Amelie!"  he  sighed  in  her  neck. 

And  she  answered  behind  his  left  ear:  "Don't 
call  me  Amelie  any  more.  I  like  Em  betterr  from 
you!  It's  so  shorrt  and  sweet — as  you  say  it.  We'll 
forget  the  passt  forreverr." 

"Am!  my  dolling!" 

"Oh,  Arrthurr!" 


THE    END 


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